Jon Richardson: Old Man - Live (2018) - full transcript

Good evening,
ladies and gentlemen of Blackpool.

It's time to start the show.

Let's get ready to grumble!

Please welcome to the stage, me!

Hello, there!

Good evening, Blackpool,
thank you for coming.

Uh... There's always
a slight tension in the room

until I address the cardigan.

It's this one, isn't it?
I'm wearing it. I know I'm wearing it.

It didn't jump on me.

I don't wear this for the gig.
Just to calm me down.



I... I just wear this to come out in.
I call this The Establisher.

Just lets the men in the room
know that I'm the alpha.

Sometimes men think they might
have a little heckle at these gigs

and they see that and they think,
"Holy shit."

That guy's got no dignity.

I can't wear it for the gig,
it gets too hot.

Obviously temperature-wise for me

and, let's be honest,
sexually for some of you.

So the first thing is I take it off,
which is about as sexy as it sounds.

Got another one underneath for the gig,
obviously.

Didn't want you thinking
I wasn't gonna wear one.

If I hang that there,
I'm gonna warp the collar.

I don't suppose anyone's brought
a travel coat hanger, have they?

I have. Of course I have!



Let's hang it that way.
Turn it round so you get the benefit.

Had to wait for a man to die
to get that cardigan

so I might as well get my money's worth.

By which I mean
I bought it from a charity shop.

I didn't see him wearing it
and just follow him until he gave up.

If you're gonna applaud a coat hanger,
you might have a good evening tonight.

That hopefully
is not the highlight of the show.

The show's called The Old Man
for obvious reasons.

I'm a cardigan-wearing gentleman.

I wear them all year,
in case you're wondering.

I'm not one of these Christmas dicks.

Put one on for a Wetherspoons pub crawl
and think you've got a personality.

I wear mine all year round.

There's other things
that make me an old man.

I play Countdown for a living. I don't
know how I'm getting away with that.

Uh... I always know
where the nearest toilet is.

I secretly prefer to use my own,

which obviously makes touring
quite difficult.

I can be away for weeks sometimes,
saving it up.

Inside, obviously. I don't shit in
envelopes and keep 'em in the car door.

Chronological, if you're interested.

Gotta have a system when you're filing
imaginary shit in an imaginary car door.

I also have a general loathing
for society.

I'm already at an age
where I'm baffled by new things.

I went to get my hair cut recently,
which I do as rarely as possible.

I don't like being touched.

And as yet, the technology
isn't there for it to be done online.

So gotta go to the hairdresser's,
haven't you?

I tend to sit like that in the chair,
like you do at the dentist's

Cos I find if you sit like that
with your arms out,

their balls keep touching...

I know they're not doing it on purpose
so you can't overreact,

but you've gotta do something
or they might think you like it.

Gotta set a boundary,
otherwise when they're doing the back,

you're getting tea-bagged at the front

because you haven't told them
where the line is.

I just tuck in like that. I don't
even want to be talked to, to be honest.

But they insist on it so, um...

I tend to go to places where they lack
the linguistic or social skills

to talk to me very much. Ideally both.

Angry East European men,
that's my dream haircut.

If I walk in and they call me boss man,
I know I'm in the right place.

I don't want tea,
I don't want to be your friend.

I want to open the door and hear,
"Boss man, sit." Good.

This is going to be a quick, efficient,
slightly violent haircut.

Turns out that's how I like it.

When they grab your head
a little bit too tight

and they dig their clippers in at the
back and you think, "I'm a dirty boy."

Should have cut my own hair,
bringing this filth in here.

"You want gel?" "Spit on me!"

You can get too into it.

The haircut I'm talking about,
"eight pound, keep the ten".

That's the haircut I'm talking about.

I used to call them "eight pound, just
the one back", but they don't like that.

The only problem with that kind
of haircut is the haircut itself,

which is very often appalling.

I've had some stinkers, I really have.
I had one, it was all uneven on the top.

He went to do the back there
with the clippers.

I'll take some blame for this.

I've got quite a small head
but quite a hunched back.

And I think the perspective got to him.

I think he thought
I was further away than I was.

He lunged in with the clippers to cover
the gap and there wasn't one.

He hit me right up there.
Took a big chunk out of my head.

But he didn't apologise.
He just carried on

with such confidence. I thought,
"I must have asked him to do that."

"I'm sure I'd remember sitting down

and saying, 'I'd just like a tidy-up
but I do like to look bald in a hat.“'

"'If you could fix that for me
right at the end."'

Absolute stinker it was. I didn't
complain because it was too late,

but I got home
and my wife was very upset.

Said, "You're gonna have to stop
doing this, it's upsetting me."

I think she meant the hair, it could
have been the marriage but I moved on.

She goes quite often
to have her hair cut.

She pays more
than I think is normal for a haircut.

They bring her a drink.
She knows the name of the guy.

She goes on holiday with him,
that son of stuff.

She's gone a fortnight sometimes.

She comes back
and her hair looks the same.

But I don't say anything
cos she seems so happy.

She said to me, "Next time you go,
let me book you into somewhere better."

So she booked me into a trendier,
more modern establishment.

I walked in, there was a Harley-Davidson
inexplicably parked in the room.

I thought you sat on that to have
your hair cut. You don't. Straight off.

Sat in the chair, the guy come out
with the gown they put round you.

He swooshed it all flamboyant
like a bullfighter.

I thought, "That's cost me a fiver
already, hasn't it?"

That's six months
at gown-tossing college, that, isn't it?

He didn't cut my hair.
Never saw him again. That's his job!

Full-time gown tosser
in this establishment!

Presumably just back in his cupboard
waiting for the next one.

"Ha ha ha! Oh, I love that bit."
Off he goes.

The gown settled down around me
and this is where the trouble starts.

It wasn't an ordinary barber's gown.

It was mostly that son of
black plasticky stuff they use.

There was a circle of it there,
a perfect circle,

cut out of the gown,

and replaced
with a son of clear plastic sheeting,

like a little porthole.

Through to my...

cock. Um...

I prefer not to finish that sentence.

There's usually a giggle of
anticipation, but not here apparently.

"What's down there, Jon?"

"Biscuits?"

My cock is down there. Um...

And my balls. I keep them together.

Although less and less as I get older,
to be honest. Um...

No, my thing's down there

and it really... you see a window,
you can't help but look through it.

It really drew focus to an area
I try and keep private.

Further than that, I don't even
like him. You know, we've never got on.

The use I get out of him, I really
resent having to carry him everywhere.

It happens so rarely and yet he's there
all fucking year, dangling around.

A bit like carrying your Christmas
decorations in a backpack all year.

You're ready if Christmas breaks out
in June, but it rarely does.

Be more useful to me if I could
take it off and just put it away.

My wife could say,
"I think we'll have sex tonight."

I'd say, "Fantastic,
I'll get my cock out."

"Where did I put it, garage or loft?"

You know, I have done sex.
I don't wanna come across as weird.

If you haven't, have a go, it's lovely.
It's very nice.

It's very quick, I'll warn you of that.

If you're gonna do it, be ready,

cos it's over
as soon as it's started.

I just don't do it a lot cos there's
other stuff to do, isn't there?

Bills, tidying, that son of stuff.

Life gets in the way. Like the cinema.

Every time you go to the cinema,
you have the same conversation.

"This is brilliant.
Every Wednesday now, we'll come..."

Next Wednesday comes,
you don't cos you're doing other stuff.

Then another Wednesday
and before you know it, you go back.

"When did this last happen?"

"I don't know.
Dark Knight Rises, I think."

Which is a film,
not what I call my penis.

Slightly arrogant title for him,
to be honest.

But, no, it's good
and the other job of the penis,

uh... urinating.

Again, not one I usually explain.

It urinates as well. Not very good
at that, to be honest, either.

I guess I'm talking to the women here
on behalf of the men.

I just want you to know, sometimes
there's little bonus sprinkles around.

That's not our fault always.

I think you see that
and you picture us just swinging it.

Ooh, a moth, come here, you!

If you could see how hard we try

to get it on target.

Sometimes you have to strangle him
so none gets out

while you're getting all ready.
He wants to go earlier than we do.

You can need a piss all day
and it's fine

but you touch the toilet door handle,
he goes, "Are we here? I'll start."

You have to say,
"No, just a minute, please."

You get all in line like that,
down the centre of the bowl.

Feet in line, head over the balls,
ready for a delivery like that.

Little give in the knee helps

in case there's any tremors
or unevenness or something like that.

Then look down the centre of the bowl,
which by the way is the wrong shape.

Why is it longer that way?

We can all reach. A little bit of help
there would be nice.

And then at the last minute,
and we don't get any credit for this,

at the last minute,
just a little bit of lift on it.

Like that, a couple of degrees.
Like a little chip shot in golf.

Take some of the pace off and loop it
over the water feature like that

so it just tinkles nicely
off the porcelain, you see.

And you don't get
that thunderous impact splash...

that you do.

It's not a criticism, I appreciate
you've gone for proximity to the target.

"Get on top of it and we can't miss."

I understand but as a result,
it can be quite... brrrrr!

Quite intimidating, you know,
if you're underneath.

Downstairs, I mean!

Pull yourselves out of the gutter,
please.

No, sometimes I'm downstairs
and my wife's upstairs.

I hear that, I think,
"She's never having a bath now!"

She's already had a shower this morning.
Think of the bills!

You get all in line like that,

you let go and for no reason,
it shoots off in that direction.

I don't know if there's a bit of dust
in there or if he gets distracted.

You have to drag it back on target.

This is a good point to interject
to say,

this show
is primarily about your enjoyment.

I want you to laugh as many times
as you can in the next six hours.

Not the third hour, that's dance.
Don't laugh then, you'll upset me.

But I want you to laugh. I want you to
leave feeling better than you arrived.

That's what my job is.

But I reckon there's a lot of pressure
on comics to be political and edgy.

And I don't really do that.

Soto compensate for that,
throughout the gig,

I've peppered a few household tips.

That's nice, isn't it?
Just little things to help you.

If you pay attention,
take them away with you,

they'll make
the rest of your life better.

You can't argue with that
in terms of value for money.

There might be better comedians
out there than me,

but they won't tell you
something about a baking tray

that changes the way
you look at a Sunday roast.

I'm gonna do that tonight.
Right at the end. You've got to stay.

Don't be leaving. And this
is the son of thing to look out for.

I don't flag 'em all up
so you have to pay attention.

I don't really like
talking about wees and willy.

This routine is...

Wees and willy!

That sounds like... There should be
more than one willy in that sentence.

That's not what I want to get bogged
down on on the recording of this show.

"He's really precise about how many
dicks are in his routines, isn't he?"

I don't like talking
about wees and willies really.

This routine is really about saying
don't keep your new toilet rolls here.

It's not a good place for them, this.

I know if you're sat down,
that's behind, that's a little secret.

You think, "What harm
could possibly befall them there?"

This is right in the friendly fire zone
for us, that.

Sometimes it's four of them
on a little wooden spike like that.

We'll get every one of them,
every one of them.

A line straight down like that.

Like a mark of Zorro,
if he was called Ian.

And we're as upset about it as you are.

It only happens to me in other people's
houses. I don't keep mine there.

Sometimes you're a guest and it happens.
You think, "I can't tell 'em."

How can you tell someone that
without it sounding deliberate?

"Jon, your coffee's on the side."
"Fantastic. Quick one."

"I just pissed
on all your toilet rolls."

It sounds like
you've gone looking for 'em.

"I found all them ones in the cupboard."

You can't own up to that, can you?

So I do this. I assume most men do,
that's why I tell you.

I just turn 'em round.

Hope you've got a radiator in there
or at least a through draught.

Sometimes there's other men
in the house.

You turn it round, there's his one.

"Cheeky sod, I didn't see that."

Never be the fourth man in.
There's no angle to cover from there.

Gotta lob 'em out the window
and stay up for half an hour.

Come down in tears
and they won't ask then.

All you need to know... I'm not
a big fan of this region of my body.

I don't think it's fit for purpose,
to be honest.

I certainly wouldn't stare at it for 20
minutes while I was having my hair out.

I couldn't work out
what this little window was for.

And then I thought it must be for him.

While he's cutting my hair, he can have
a little peek over like that,

just make sure I'm not getting up
to anything down there.

I thought there must be so many dirty
old men having a little fiddle in there

when the blanket goes over.

“Short back and sides, son.

Take your time, take your time."

They've had to cut a little window
in there.

A little security window
to shame them into behaving themselves.

I said to my wife, “I can't believe you
sent me there. It's full of perverts.“

She said, “We don't have them
in women's hairdresser's.“

I thought
it must just be a man thing then.

I started asking other men to see if
any had been given this special gown.

Not one anywhere. I'm the first one
who got given one of these.

They've all got one in the back.

I must have walked in
a bit crotch heavy or something.

He's just seen me out the window.

"Oh, shit, will you get
that toucher's gown out of the back?"

"I think we've got one coming."

Now I have to find another man
who's been given one of these

to be sure I'm not
the perviest-looking man in the country.

So I carried on asking people.
It took me weeks.

I was having a pint with a mate.

I said, "Have you had
that thing cut out at the barber's

to stop you masturbating?"

He said to me, "I think it's so you can
use your phone in there, isn't it, Jon?"

"Oh, yeah, it is, yeah."

I said, “I knew that.
I was only joking what I said.“

What son of penis-obsessed maniac
would think anything else?

What son of lunatic would see
a perfectly normal advance in design

to embrace new technology
and spend nearly a month of his life,

sometimes approaching strangers
in the street?

“You can't wank in the hairdresser's
any more, can you, lads?“

“They bloody watch you now, don't they?
Perverts!“

That is the wrongest
I've ever been about anything.

Usually if you're that wrong,
you at least think you might be wrong.

And that should have been a key point
in my life to think I need to let go

of a lot of this anger I carry with me.

Maybe all the other stuff
I get upset about I'm just wrong about.

Maybe that guy who cut me up on the M62,
if I'd have looked more closely,

I'd have seen his wife was in labour
on the passenger seat.

That's why they were driving
erratically, rushing to the hospital.

I could have let that go.

I certainly didn't need to follow him
for an hour with my full beam on.

I tell you, I got angrier.

I got angrier that it was for phones
than the other thing.

It upset me more that we'd invented
a new gown for the barber's

for a younger generation
who just can't sit still for ten minutes

and tolerate the same shitty small talk
we've had to for generations

without just getting their phones out

and messaging people,
and it makes me feel very antisocial.

Cos I'll be honest, I don't like
the people next to me half the time.

The idea that at given moments

when I've finally got an excuse
to not answer the phone,

I would wilfully get it out
to find people to send pictures to...

You know, sometimes you're at
a train station waiting for a train

and you're just enjoying
being on your own.

You look down the platform and you see
a friend, someone who you like,

and they see you but you can't help it,
your first reaction is, "Ah, fuck!"

Cos they're gonna come over,
aren't they?

You can't both just skulk back.

"Shall we pretend we didn't?"
"Yeah, OK."

It's not that you don't like 'em

but I like you on Thursday
at the pub quiz, that's when I like you.

This is my time now
and you're gonna steal it.

They wander off.

You haven't prepared anything
so it's just bleurgh, bleurgh, bleurgh.

I think Twitter is the worst thing
to happen to the country,

people just babbling on all the time,
mindless crap.

And I speak as someone who's on it.
So if you're on Twitter,

I'm not saying, "You need to put your
phone down and engage with your kids."

Sometimes I'm on Twitter so long
I don't know where my kid's gone.

She was there, I go on Twitter, she's
gone. I say to my wife, "Where is she?"

"University?"

I just kept clicking refresh.

Thought I was hungry.

I can't stand Twitter. It's not
the news feed, it's the messages.

On Twitter
you can message people directly.

The messages I get, they upset me.
They cause me stress.

When I say that,
people assume I'm talking about abuse,

like trolling and things like that.
Don't get me wrong, I get some abuse.

Not as much as I think I deserve.
But I welcome the abuse.

If you're bored,
if you've got five minutes,

send me some shit on the internet.
Really cheers me up.

Used to upset me
and now it just makes me laugh.

It's the vitriol behind it.
These men seem to get so angry at me.

I find it quite flattering.

I didn't think
I was that ubiquitous, to be honest.

I thought if you turn the channel over,
I'm not there, I haven't got the depth.

But they get so upset, these men, I just
think, "How are you so upset about me?"

I've always thought
I'm a bluebottle, not a wasp.

Don't get me wrong. You don't want
either in the front room,

but you only
get out of your chair for one.

Now a wasp you get up for;
it's got a dagger on its arse.

It is a threat to you at that moment.

A bluebottle's just annoying,
it's the noise, isn't it?

That's what I feel like I am.

You've had a hard day at work.
You're flicking through the channels.

You hear that, it can be grating.

"Fuck off!"

You don't get up, you just think,

"It's a hot day, the window's shut.
It'll die in a minute."

That's what my career is.

If you don't like it, it's unfortunate.

But it'll be gone soon,
don't worry about it.

Come in the lounge one day,
I'll be on your windowsill like that.

Blow me down the radiator till you do
the hoovering. Nothing to worry about.

These men get so upset.

Usually it's about nine, ten o'clock,
that's when I'm on stuff.

Sometimes they're at two
in the afternoon the next day.

I think, "I'm not on telly now, am I?
He's at work now, this man.

He's trying to get on with his life
and he can't because I exist."

He's at his desk now like that.
Someone's going,

"Have you got them figures?
We've got that meeting."

He's going, "I'll be in in a minute,
but there's this fucking guy..."

"I've tried not to message him.
I'm gonna have to send him abuse."

I'm glad they've got Twitter, these men.

In the old days,
they had to come and find me.

Had to Google my tour dates.
"He's in Blackpool.

I'll wait at the theatre.
I'll get him when he comes out.

I'll go,
'You cardigan-wearing dickhead

They'd drive back to Plymouth thinking,
“That wasn't worth the petrol.“

"I've had to take two days off work."

Now you just get your phone out,
send me some abuse, it's quite simple.

I even understand
the mentality behind it.

I think these are unhappy people.

And they see me as someone
who has a better life than they deserve.

I just complain for a living
and that can be upsetting.

I understand. I had some dark years.
I'm glad Twitter wasn't around.

I lived in Swindon for five years.

It's not a bad place but when you're in
your mid 20s and you could live anywhere

and you pick Swindon,
it is a sign there's something wrong.

I lived above some garages.

I would get drunk at night. Had Twitter
been around, I would have been a troll.

I would have seen people on telly
and sent 'em abuse

because it's easier
to make someone else feel bad

than lift your own circumstances.

"Are you gonna build a house or host
a quiz? Why don't you fucking pick one?"

Gone off to bed.
"I told that bloody Nick Knowles!"

You delete them in the morning,
you think, "He seems quite nice

and I just cried watching DIY SOS.

That's what's happened there.
I've lashed out."

He does seem lovely. I even
stopped doing that joke for a while.

I thought he seems nice. Then he brought
an album out so I brought it back.

I felt he was provoking me there,
to be honest.

Nick Knowles has got an album out
if you're unaware,

which begs the question,
what is wrong with the world?

And more specifically,
what is wrong with Nick Knowles?

Why has nobody close to him
taken him aside and said,

"I know you like singing
but don't do that."

"It's no one else's fault.
We all sing in the shower.

If you want, get your shed converted.
Turn it into a studio.

You've got contacts. I'm sure
you can do it for nowt in a weekend."

"Don't release an album, mate."
I honestly think he's gone mad.

You watch DIY SOS, it's powerful
telly. I always cry watching it.

I realise for Nick Knowles,

he's spent the last ten years
around people in tears

telling him what a good guy he is.

He's just gone insane.

He thinks he's single-handedly
keeping the country together.

Single-handedly reversing Tory cuts,
Nick Knowles,

and he's seen the music news
over the last couple of years.

He's thought,
"Well, Prince has gone, Bowie's gone.

Knowlesy's gonna have to
get his guitar out here, I think."

"I'll have to do for the music industry

what I did for that three-bed semi
in Romford."

"Make it relevant for the people again."

I don't understand the logic behind it.

These men, they send me abuse,
I don't mind.

I think they just think
my life is better than it is.

They think, "I'll bring him down a peg."

They think I'll do a gig like tonight,
I'll come straight off stage,

there'll be a limousine waiting for me

and that'll whisk me straight off
to the Blackpool Ritz, um...

You probably don't know
about the Blackpool Ritz.

It wouldn't let your son in,
to be honest. It's not really for you.

It's underneath Marks and Spencer's.

You go underneath there
and it's like a big marble-top bar.

Only famous people in there.

Ed Sheeran'll be there,
he's just done Blackpool Arena.

Go up to Ed. I go, "Hi, Ed,
you don't know me but I'm also famous."

- “Course I know you.
- How you doing?“

That's Ed Sheeran
if you haven't heard him talk.

That's my Ed Sheeran impression there.

I do about three impressions
throughout the gig.

I've learnt from doing it, it's just
easier if I tell you who it is first.

Don't want to leave you hanging.
I'll just tell you, then I'll do it.

I'll throw a physical clue in if I can,
like the guitar.

He's always writing.
"What are you up to?"

"I'm writing a song
about these peanuts."

"Just put the guitar down
and enjoy your life, Edward, please.

Everything's going fine. I don't know
if you've heard the albums.

They're on everything.
Every radio station and advert

Sometimes they're on the breeze.

I can be on a headland
miles from anywhere.

I just hear,
♪ I'm in love with your body!"

He's on the wind!

“Just relax. What do you want to drink?“
“I'll have a Pornstar Martini.“

I say,
“Barman, three Pornstar Martinis.

Just tip the third one on the floor
cos some people are poor!"

And then Ed and I will drink and talk
about all the other celebrities we know.

Celebrities will only hang around
with each other

cos then we've got that to talk about.

What could you tell of us life?

Ed'll say, "What you doing this summer,
Jon?"

I'll say,
"I'm going on a canal boating holiday

with Diane Abbott and Peter Crouch."

"You wouldn't think we'd get on,
but it's a cracking triumvirate.

We have a right laugh.

Crouchy's not cut out for barge living,
obviously, but..."

“He makes an effort for Diane.

She fires him up politically.
He comes away so alive.

In return, he's making her
quite a deadly six-yard striker."

"It's tit for tat, really."

We'll have a laugh. Eventually,
Ed gets drunk and wanders off.

I say, "Where you going to?"
He says, "I'm gonna talk to girls,

to see if they're from somewhere
I can do a song about 'em."

"OK, don't do Galway,
you've already done that."

He goes, "Cheers, mate.
♪ She was from CIeveleys..."

I look forward to hearing line two.

Off Ed goes. I go upstairs to my room,

puke everywhere,
get off to the next gig.

I think that's what these men
think my life is like. It's not.

Very rarely, anyway.

Don't see so much of Ed
since he stepped up a venue size.

What I tend to do after a gig,
and this is very boring,

but most gigs,
I just tend to drive home.

It's only a small country, I can get
back in three or four hours.

I like to get home afterwards
cos I'm dying for the toilet.

I really floor it on the way back;
72, 73, if I have to.

Edit that out
in case there's any rozzers watching.

Oh, OK, there we go.

So what you don't know is
I've done this gig about 150 times.

This is the last night.

Occasionally I say a line
I've never said before

like "in case
there's any rozzers watching".

I hope you enjoyed that in the room
cos it won't be on the fucking DVD.

That one's just for you, Blackpool,
you soak that one up and enjoy it.

In case there's any rozzers watching!

Oh, dear,
I might tweet myself after this gig.

Fucking idiot.

Come on, we're nearly done.

What I do, if I'm away away,
if I'm miles away from home,

and I'm away for a few nights,

if I'm on my own,
I'll just stay in a Premier Inn.

I stay in a Premier Inn
cos you get a good night guarantee.

You can't argue with that, can you?

If you don't sleep well,
they give you your money back.

Now that's financial suicide
for a hotel, let's be honest.

I don't sleep well at home, I'm not
sleeping well at a fucking Premier Inn!

They don't ask.

You don't have to complain about the
room, you can complain about anything.

You still get your money.
"Did you sleep well, Mr Richardson?"

"I'm afraid not." "Can I ask why?"

"Yes, the demons
wouldn't stop screaming."

They count your pennies out, off you go.
I'm touring for free here.

Thank you very much, Lenny.

So I stop in a Premier Inn,
you get the good night guarantee.

I don't stay
in the big city centre ones.

You know, the big multi-storey ones.

That's where the young people stay
when they've been out drinking.

I don't get any sleep.
I'm just behind the hotel door all night

waiting for them to try and steal
my do not disturb sign.

Lurking there like a little security
goblin behind the door.

Still there at four o'clock
in the morning,

my knees have gone now. Agony.

You hear the ding of the lift
and the giggling,

and you think, "They're coming!"

Hear scratching on the door like mice.

I look through the peephole.
I go, "That's mine, you little bastard."

Sometimes they look back.
"Oh, shit, they can see me!"

I sleep in the bath
with the door locked.

I stay in those weird ones. You know
when you're driving along a B road

in the middle of nowhere next to fields.

You get to a roundabout
and there's a burnt-down Little Chef

and a one-storey Premier Inn.

And you think, "Who's staying in that?"
I am! I'm in that.

And within an hour of the end
of the gig,

I'm sat on the end of the bed
in my underpants

just waiting for Family Guy
to come on to get me to sleep.

I'm just going
to have a little break there.

When you come to Blackpool, you have
fish and chips before you do your show.

Tactically that was a fucking error.

I get paranoid. If I was live, I'd just
carry on, but they're recording it.

I'll watch this back and see how much
of the show I spent going...

I just let one out to the side.
Did you hear it, no? Right.

Just carry on then.

Um...

I'm glad I'm not editing this.

Or watching it, to be honest.
But there you go.

Strap in. So here we go.

I get to the end of the gig and within
an hour, I'll just be in my underpants

on the end of the bed
waiting for Family Guy to come on.

Then I have the same argument
with myself every night.

You wind yourself up. I get to the end
of the gig and I think, "Bollocks.

I'm too hungry to sleep. I forgot to eat
before the gig cos I was too nervous

and now it's late. You can't get
any food in Britain after ten o'clock.

Every restaurant in Britain
shuts at ten o'clock,

as if no one's ever hungry
at quarter past ten.

Must be the bloody EU," I think.

"EU red tape.
It'll be better when we're out.

Oh, yes, indeed!
When control comes back!

Get back to the good old days

when there was 24-hour
apple-crumble stands on every corner."

"Wake up with a good old hard-on for the
Queen at three o'clock in the morning.

Get yourself some spotted dick
and gravy

or whatever we used to eat
in the good old days!"

"Calm yourself down, Jon,
it's coming back. It's coming back.

Just relax. What you gonna do now?
Sod yourself out now."

I think, "Right, there was that garage
I drove past on the way here.

I could go back there
and get a Pot Noodle.

Probably the best pan of
an hour's round trip for a Pot Noodle.

Might be easiest to just smash my head

repeatedly against the door
until the darkness comes."

You're not supposed to drive
an hour for a Pot Noodle, are you?

They're for after the apocalypse.
Keep 'em. Keep 'em. Keep 'em.

I think, "I'm not driving an hour
for a Pot Noodle."

Then that voice kicks in.

That's you again
but trying to piss yourself off.

I think, "I'm not driving
for a Pot Noodle."

Voice goes, "Do something.
You're not gonna sleep."

"I'm not driving for a Pot Noodle."

"I did tell you not to eat the biscuits
when we checked in."

"Well, I fucking did do, all right?"

"I'm not driving for a Pot Noodle."
"You realise it's been an hour now.

If you'd set off when you thought of it,
you'd have had one by now."

Shut up, me! You don't have to leave
the house to do that.

You can do that in your own home
sat watching telly.

You think, "I fancy a biscuit.
I'll go and get a biscuit."

You look in the cupboard, you go,
"There's no bloody biscuits.

Why've we not got any biscuits?
We've always got bloody biscuits."

You sit back down but you don't accept
that fact, do you?

You wait. Sometimes it's five minutes,
sometimes it's an hour.

You think, "No, I must have missed 'em."

You go and look in exactly the same
cupboard in exactly the same place

as if Schriidingefis Jaffa Cakes
have come up out of nowhere.

"There's still no biscuits,
it's just bloody rice."

"Why have we got so much bloody rice
in this house?"

Sit back down, give it another hour.

You start to think,
“Perhaps I could do a quick risotto.“

"Microwave rice and Dairylea?
Is that a risotto?

Could it be so simple?"

And that's when
I start checking my phone.

I'll get my phone out
and check my Twitter.

I won't lie to you, all the abuse,
I screengrab it

and keep it in a folder on my phone.

Just in case I ever develop
any self-esteem, you know.

Some days I wake up. I think,
"I feel all right about myself."

I have a read of that, I think,
"Oh, no, you're awful, awful."

I'll show them to my kids
when they're older.

"Look how much
people used to hate your daddy."

"What did you do to upset them, Dad?"

"Mostly anagrams towards the end."

So... I've usually got it up ready

and that's not a sentence
I've fucking used in my life.

Oh, there we go.

So this is the son of thing
I'm looking for.

You're not going to be able to read that
but I'll show you so you know it's real.

I don't want you to think
I've made this up.

Some of this language is quite ripe.

I would hate for you to think
I've made this up to upset you.

This is the son of conversation two
lads will have about me of an evening.

They copy me in in case I'm curious.

So this one come in last year,
it starts off,

a guy called Bob,
about ten o'clock he tweets me.

He says,
"I've never liked Jon Richardson."

That's a good start, innit? Never.

Never's not just me as a comedian,
is it? Never's my whole life.

Never suggests like
even when I was a kid,

this guy was just walking up and down
his corridor.

"Oh, there's a little prick somewhere

with a little Super Mario Brothers
cardigan on.

I bet he's down at the playground

checking for stones in the sandpit
so no one gets hurt at playtime.“

He's got me bang on, to be fair. Um...

"I've never liked Jon Richardson."

Imagine the first day
he saw me on telly!

Poor bastard. Hard day at work, sits
down with his tea, puts the telly on.

"You are shitting me."

"How many years I been telling you
I hate this prick, Margaret?"

"All your life, Bob."
"All my life, Margaret!"

He's finally had enough last year.

He tweets me. "I've never liked
Jon Richardson. He's as funny as..."

These are always my favourites.
Then you get a funny little image

and if you've not heard it before,
it makes you laugh.

They'll say, "He's about as funny
as a shit on a bouncy castle."

You can't help but laugh.

It's instantly picturable, innit?

Everyone at the fair
having a good old bounce like that.

Someone clocks the turd
on that front edge.

Selfishly they think, "I'll just bounce
away from it, just bounce away."

Because of the physics
it chases after them, doesn't it?

Soon they're all pinned up
on that back wall.

"Stop bouncing, Vicar, stop bouncing!"

You can't stop bouncing, can you?

You throw yourself down,
you'll only bounce higher.

They're up higher, the turd's up higher.
It's nutting people now.

"Get it off me!"

I'm done with that image.

If you enjoyed it,
carry it on in your own leisure.

I've never worked out
how the turd gets off the bouncy castle.

Do get back to me. I don't know
if someone volleys it off like that.

Maybe someone scoops it up, a hero,
takes it on the chest, literally.

Tries to get it out of there.
We don't know, we don't know.

He didn't go with that,
he went a different direction, Bob.

He says,
"I've never liked Jon Richardson.

He's about as funny
as a Yugoslavian rapist."

Yeah. It gets that reaction everywhere
so don't feel bad.

A few sort of shocked whoops there
and some people start laughing

and think, "Oh, shit, no one else
is laughing. I probably shouldn't."

Someone laughs too loud and too early

as if to say,
"I forgot I'd written that."

Now obviously
the second word is gruesome.

The second word's horrific.
He's trying to be brutal there.

But it's the first one, isn't it?
It's that first word.

You think, "Well, where do
the Yugoslavians come into this?"

I'm looking at that, thinking,

"There hasn't been a Yugoslavia
since the early '90s."

He must have Googled
"Where are the least funny rapists?"

I guess he's been linked to a survey
from sometime in the '80s

when that son of thing
didn't seem so deplorable.

He's thought, "I'll just go with the
stats as given," so he's sent that in.

I was staring at that thinking,
"I'm gonna have to reply to him."

Say, "Bob, I know you don't like me
but why did you say Yugoslavian

cos I can't sleep."

I didn't get chance, anyway.
His mate Mel replied.

So Mel's up, he's seen that message
and he gets all excited.

"We're hating someone, yeah!

I was nearly gonna go to bed.
I'd have missed this."

He's all excited.
He's got a slight problem, Mel,

that he doesn't know who I am.
Shouldn't stop him hating me, should it?

So his first message
is just a fact-finding mission.

He says to Bob,
"Which one's Jon Richardson?"

It's not that upsetting,
really, that, is it?

No apostrophe S in one's
but I didn't get into that.

I'll be honest, there's bigger trouble
coming for me than spelling and grammar.

Which is otherwise impeccable,
I have to say.

Capital UV, capital JR.
Question mark with a double space.

You don't see a lot of that.
No H in my Jon.

I've got mates who can't remember that.

The guy can obviously spell,
he just doesn't use apostrophes,

which suggests there's some reason
he's not using 'em.

Maybe he's worried we're gonna run out.

Maybe he's sick
of going in the butcher's,

seeing “sausage's“ with apostrophe S.
Most of us just move on. Not Mel.

He's looking at that thinking,
"Stop bloody wasting 'em.

Stop wasting 'em, we're gonna run out.

I'm not putting mine on th'internet,
I'll put 'em down in fbasement.

Yeah, they'll all come round Mel's
house, come the shortage.

'Can I have one of your apostrophes?'

I'll say, 'No! You should have
looked after your own!"'

Now he's got a basement full of them.
They're waist high.

He gets naked once a month
and slides into them like that.

Rubs them all over his nipples.

"Who possesses all the possessives?
You do, Melvin."

"Bloody hell, what's that?

That's a comma!
That shouldn't be down here.

That should be over there
in comma drawer 64."

Don't, please.

You'll watch it back and hate yourself
for clapping at that, you really will.

So, anyway, he says to Bob,

"Which one's Jon Richardson?
The little gay-looking cunt?"

You laugh till you're finished,
by all means.

Can I thank you there for making that
the longest laugh of the night so far?

Lovely to come to Blackpool
and have them unite as one to say,

"That is bang on, that. It really is."

"As a four-word description
of your work, Jon,

that absolutely is perfect."

I mean, you're right,
Bob rounds the whole chat off.

He says, "That's the one. That's him."

Naturally I screengrab that,
I look at it every day.

Every day it cheers me up,
because those are real men.

Those are actual men, who exist.
And that is a pan of their life.

They're gonna die one day and that
conversation is a pan of their life.

I start to think,
“Maybe they hate me in person.“

Like any hobby,
it starts online, you get into it.

Maybe now they meet up at weekends.
Their wives make them a packed lunch.

"You off hating, Bob?" They go, "Yeah."

"Who are you hating this weekend?"

"Jon Richardson!"

"You've always hated him."

"Yes, since I was a kid,
I've fucking hated him."

"Where are you hating him this weekend?"
"At the seaside."

Meet on the special bench
they've arranged to meet up.

They eat their sandwiches
and hate me for a bit.

"I hate his shoes." "Good one, Bob.
And his eyebrows." "Good one, Mel."

They eat their sandwiches
and then they drink their drink.

They probably hang around for another
hour or two, just looking out to sea.

Sometimes their little fingers
touch just there.

They never mention it
but it's electric for the pair of them.

That's Bob and Mel. The reality is,

I don't let tweets upset me
because I'm never gonna meet them.

If I did, they'd probably be nice to me.

That's what people are like.
They're cowards.

I know that cos I know how I feel

when I beep my horn and someone stops
their car. I shit my pants.

I shit my pants and I apologise.
I say, "It was probably my fault.

You didn't need to indicate.

It should have been clear why you were
reversing round that roundabout."

I don't get upset. It's taken me
years to have the confidence

but you can't live your life trying
to please people who don't like you.

Your obligation is to people
who do like you.

Try and make their life better.

By that I mean, without sucking up,
people like yourselves.

People who follow me on Twitter
and come to my gigs.

You send me a message
and I care about that

because I think
we have an existing relationship.

So you'll just message me to say
you're excited about the gig.

Send me a message saying, "Off to watch
Jon Richardson in a week #deadexcited."

Now sometimes I think,
"You've got excited too early."

And that is stress to me. I think,
"Don't get excited yet. Not for a week!"

I want you excited on the day. About
five o'clock, you get in from work.

“We're going to that thing,
that'll be all right.

If I laugh once, that'll do me.“

That's the bar I want set.

I don't want a week of just thinking
of you sat in your house, like,

"Oh, my God,
I'm gonna go and see Jon Richardson!"

That's too much. Sometimes it's months!

The minute you book the tickets,
I'll get a message.

Say the gig's in July,
I'll get a message in December.

"Off to watch Jon Richardson in July.
#datenight."

Now I think, "I've got to keep this
loveless marriage alive, have I?"

These poor bastards
only get one night out a month.

They plan it months in advance
and I'm it for July.

I can't be your one a month,
I'll tell you that now.

You'll have an argument on the way back.
"I'm booking the next thing."

"Fucking do, then, I don't care."

The applause of people who've had
this booked for seven months there.

Sometimes you get so excited,

lend up feeling I have to worry for you
on a son of physical, medical level.

Sometimes you tweet me to say,
"I've got Jon Richardson tickets.

Why have I not
pissed my knickers already?"

Didn't you, Katherine?

Where's Katherine Glynn?

Yeah!

She's in here somewhere.

Shit! Where is she, over there?

UP there?

Up the top, there you are, Katherine!
Hello there.

How are you?

Didn't think I'd read it, did you?
Didn't think I'd read it.

Probably didn't think I'd remember it
for months, keep it in my head.

- Are you all right?
- Yeah.

- Have you had a nice day?
- Yeah.

Are you sure, cos you hurt yourself
this morning, didn't you?

Got Pot Noodle juice in your eye,
I read.

I should probably point out at
this point, if you send me a message,

I click on your page
and read everything you've ever written.

I can't help myself.

I can't help myself. I get bored.

You got...

Pot Noodle liquor in your eye?

I mean, you're not eating them right,
Katherine.

Are you all right then?
It was a chilli beef one, wasn't it?

Yeah. Chilli beefs her favourite.

Used to be chicken and mushroom,
didn't it?

Used to be chicken and mushroom.

And then she had a chilli beef one,
she was like, "I'm not going back."

I'll trawl back through your page,
don't worry about that.

I look all through your life.
You were chicken and mushroom

till the 23rd of June, then it was all
chilli beef after that. All chilli beef.

Are you with Joe this evening?

Yeah.

That's her boyfriend, Joe.
I'll find your loved ones.

I'll find your loved ones.

Joe sent me a little message.

- Are you all right, Joe?
- Yeah.

How do you feel about your girlfriend

sending messages like that
to men in their mid-30s?

Do you know about the hashtag she used?
Yeah, unbelievable.

#fannyflutters.
You've never heard the likes.

You've never heard the likes of it!

The problem is... I'm gonna stop there
so you can relax and enjoy your evening.

The problem is,
then you feel like mates

and I like you and I wish you
all the best for your next anniversary.

23rd of April.

Is that right? No. Is that right?

- No.
- No, 16th?

Yeah. 16th.

I get it confused with your birthday
cos that's 29th, isn't it?

I end up liking you cos I know Joe
wants to be a wildlife photographer.

He tweets lots of wildlife videos.

I'm rooting for you,
I hope it comes true.

It's a worthy dream, a wonderful job.

I know there's a woman called Annie here
who's with her husband.

It's their 20th wedding anniversary
and this is her fucking gift.

That's not good enough, mate.

That's not good enough!

20 years is platinum, not tedium.
Get her something nice!

Someone tweeted me a week ago saying,

"I'm dead excited
to watch Jon Richardson."

I clicked on her page to see how excited
she was on the day.

Know what she tweeted today? "Can't wait
to see Dave Gorman in October."

Unbelievable!

So then I get to gigs and you're
supposed to be a parade of blank faces.

Btu you're not, you're mates.
I now start worrying about you.

It can go the other way.

You can message me;
I end up not liking you.

I look at your page and I think,
"Oh, that dickhead's in tonight."

A lot of men tweet me.

"We're coming to watch you tonight,
you better not be shit."

As if I think,
"Well, if Phil's in tonight,

I better pull something out the bag,
I really had."

Then sometimes because you can
message me, you just waste my time.

You send me this inane crap.
I'll be driving to a gig in Newcastle.

I stop for petrol about one o'clock,
check my Twitter.

In the store, not at the pump,
I'm not dangerous.

Don't wanna get told off
on that big microphone they have.

"Pump seven."

Sorry, Jesus.

I check my Twitter, I'll have a message
from someone like yourselves

coming to the gig that night
and they'll send me a message.

"All right, looking
forward to gannin' to the gig later.

What time's it start?“

Just that! To me, not to the venue,
not to his mate he's going with.

He's sat at his desk.
"I'm gannin' to that gig later

but I diven't know what time it starts.
What am I gonna do about that?

I could Google it
since I'm at my computer anyway,

but that seems a lot of work for me,
that. No, I'll just ask him."

“I'm sure he's nowt better to do
on the day of a show

than corral his audience in one by one."

"Telling us the show times
and where we can park nearby

and where's good for local
Mexican food, that kind of thing.

Unless he thinks he doesn't have
to reply to me,

the working man
who pays his bloody mortgage!“

I've added quite a lot of detail there,
to be honest, but...

I'll see that and I think, "Sod off,
I've got better stuff to do than that."

I get back in the car,
I carry on driving.

But then cos I've seen his picture,
I start to feel sorry for him.

It's him and his missus up Helvellyn
with their little bobble hats on.

I could have told him
as quick as I didn't.

I could have just gone, "Eight o'clock."
He'd have gone, "Oh, eight o'clock, eh?

Like every gig I've ever been to.
There's a quirky thing."

He just wants a conversation,
doesn't he?

Maybe the other comics are replying.

Maybe that's why
this relationship exists.

John Bishop would just
take the time to say,

“it starts at eight o'clock, pal.“

John Bishop there.

Don't say you weren't warned. Um...

I start to feel bad and I think,
“You know what? He's a grown man.

He can look after himself.
He can find out how the gig's going."

Problem with Twitter is
all sons of people come to comedy.

Some of you I worry about a bit more.

Sometimes I'll be in the hotel
afterwards, I check my Twitter.

I'll get a message
from a teenage girl, right.

You can tell when you get
a message from a teenage girl

cos their Twitter name's
never just their name.

It's got all colours and sparkles on it.

and a beating love head
and a cupcake with a candle in it.

And it says, "Why would I just tell you
my name? There's so much more about me.

I love unicorns and cupcakes
and candles and love!"

The minute I see that I think,
"Oh, don't come and see me."

If you've got that much love and hope
in your head, I'm not your guy.

Go and see one of the other comedians,
you'll have a lovely time.

Don't sit through two hours of,
"I was gonna get a Pot Noodle.

I decided to fucking smash my head
against t'wall."

That's not what it's for.
I don't want to ruin your dreams.

They do enjoy the gig. You get a message
afterwards all in capital letters.

"Amazing gig,
cheers for coming to Scarborough.

ROFL now." Gif of a goblin eating
a Toblerone for no reason whatsoevers.

Moving pictures. It's better, isn't it?

"Just waiting for my dad
to come and pick us up, LOL."

I read that in the hotel, I think,
"I wonder if the dad picked them up."

Cos then I don't hear from them again.

That goes for all of you. Not one of you
pricks tweets me when you get home.

As if I'm not worried sick
about each and every one of you.

You disappear with these cryptic tweets.

"Cheers for the gig. Just gonna have
a few beers, walk back along the canal."

I think, "He's dead."

I lost another one.
I need to be careful with my audience.

I gotta hold on to 'em. It's like
the opening scene in Casualty

when they go, "I'm gonna mend them fuses
in that puddle in the basement."

I start checking your page to see
your tweet and you're not tweeting.

I think, "What's happened? What if
this girl's dad forgot to pick 'em up?"

What if their mum dropped 'em off
and he's forgotten?

He's barrelled in. She's gone,
"What are you doing here?"

"I'm just in from work."

“You're supposed to be picking
lzzyVVizzy unicorn cupcake love heart...“

"...up from that gig."

He says, "What gig?" She says,
"That little gay-looking cunt.

How many times do I have to tell you?"

"This is..."

He says, "I know exactly
who you mean now, love. Yeah.

I couldn't place him from the name but
that's a vivid description of his work."

He thinks, "Bugger,
I've been to the pub after work

and I can't tell her.
I told her I was working late.

I've been spinning that one for years.
Probably be all right."

He goes, "I'll go and get her now."

So he sets off drink driving,
he's dead in a ditch somewhere.

Smashed into a tree.
He wouldn't have texted her.

"I'm about to hit a tree.
You wanna get a taxi?"

She's still outside the venue, freezing.

Scarborough, seafront theatre, middle
of December. "He'll be here in a minute.

He'll be here in a minute."

What if a transit van turns up
and starts driving around?

"Sometimes he comes in the works van."
They get in the back of this van

then they wake up two weeks later
in the middle of Eastern Europe

surrounded by as we know the least
funny rapists anywhere on the planet!

This is all my fault.

This is all my fault.
They're my responsibility.

I'm the reason they come out tonight.
I have to check they're all right.

I think, "What can I do?
I could message them, can't I?"

I could reply to them on Twitter
and say, "Did you get back all right?"

Then I think I can't do that
cos my wife checks my Twitter.

Fair play, I check hers,

but what I can't be seen doing
is tweeting teenage girls

saying, "Are you still there?"

It doesn't look how it's meant to.
It would be misconstrued.

I think, "I can't leave a paper trail
like that knocking around, can I?"

I think, "I'll have to drive back.

I'll have to get dressed,
drive back to the theatre,

just do a couple of laps
around the car park,

make sure there's no little icicles
like that."

I think, "That's worse if I'm there."

What if the venue staff come out?
"Are you all right, Mr Richardson?"

"Yeah, there was girls here."

"That was one, have you seen her?"

They'll say, "That Jon Richardson,
he comes back after his shows

for the ones who don't make it back."

"Puts them in his car, takes them
to that weird Premier Inn,

the one in the middle of nowhere
next to the burnt-down Little Chef."

I think, "What am I gonna do?"
I realise I can't do anything.

They're almost certainly fine
so I think, “Just have a drink.“

I have a glass of wine, I fall asleep
cos I've not had anything to eat.

I wake up the next morning and there's
stress somewhere. Something's happened.

I think, "What happened?"
I can't remember. I have a shower.

I set off to the next gig. I'm driving,
thinking, "Something happened yesterday.

What happened yesterday?
Oh, shit, I killed all them girls!"

"I killed all them girls. Now
I'm driving to Birmingham to kill again.

When will I be stopped?"

I think I'll message them
when I get to Birmingham,

but when I get to Birmingham,

my inbox is full of messages
from the Birmingham audience

telling me where I can find
local Mexican food near the gig.

Little emotional guilt trips

about how funny I have to be
to justify their attendance.

"I hope it's a good gig tonight.

We've not been out for six years
since our cat got asthma."

As if it's my fault you've got
a wheezy cat in the frigging house!

And then I get random charity ones.

Out of nowhere,
every day, someone saying,

"Could you just retweet
this Just Giving page?

My uncle's walking to t'Spar
for men who can only raise one eyebrow."

I read them, I think, "That's not
a charity or a deed. That's a scam.

If I retweet that,
I'll be in the papers."

What if that is a thing
and I get it now?

I have say to people, "I didn't believe
it was a thing either till I got it.

That's why they don't get the funding!"

Every gig is more stress.

I'm still worried about people
from gigs and gigs ago.

Last year on this tour I got shingles!

The old man's disease, shingles.

Which, with all due respect,

you do not get when you're
a young spunky piece of ass like this!

I didn't know shingles was chickenpox.

If you've ever had chickenpox,
you might get shingles.

You never cure yourself.
You neutralise it

and file it in your body.
It stays there all your life.

It knocks on every now and again.
It goes, "Shingles!"

When you're young you go,
"Piss off, I'm working."

As you get older,
it's a bit like Jehovah's Witnesses.

Eventually it knocks on, you go,
"Come in, I'll be glad of the company."

You just get shingles

cos you're too tired
not to have shingles, to be honest.

It doesn't attack your whole body
like chickenpox.

It picks one nerve. In my case, it was
the nerve that starts there on the back

and just runs
across the left breast there.

And your first warning sign
is it goes a bit itchy.

But it's quite nice to scratch it

so you know somethings wrong
cos you're getting stared at in Asda.

You're just down the cereal aisle
for about half an hour like that.

You can hear people coming.

"We'll come back for the Shreddies,
kids."

"Let that man get his breakfast first.

I bet he masturbates
in the hairdresser's, dirty pig.“

So you keep scratching,
it gets sorer and sorer.

Eventually we're watching telly
and my wife says, "What's the matter?"

She's more proactive so she said,
"You'll have to go to the doctor's."

Friday morning I went to the doctor's
and I said, "I think I've got shingles."

She said, "It does sound like shingles
but you can't possibly have shingles,

you're far too young."

And I said, "Well, is it possible
to have shingles of the soul?"

"I might look young to you,
but inside I'm thrice the age I appear."

She said, "You've used the word thrice
there, so perhaps it is shingles."

"Thrice isn't a word
for your generation."

I said,
“Can I take something? It's hurting.“

She said, "I won't give you
the shingles medication.

It's really strong.
You have to take it for a month.

Go away over the weekend
and see what happens."

What happened that weekend

is this itching became
a line of weeping, pus-ridden sores.

Not the best weekend of my life,
that one, if I'm to be honest.

Not the worst.
I lived in Swindon five years but...

Not the best so I got an emergency
appointment, I went back on Monday.

I showed her.
She went, "Fucking tits on that."

Which I felt was a bit
unprofessional, to be honest.

But they are lovely. Um...

That's the state of the NHS these days,
isn't it?

Till we get out and that 350 mill
kicks in. But for now we're stuck.

I said, "What do you think?" She said,
"I'm afraid you have got shingles."

I said, "I told you.
Can I have the medication now?"

No word of a lie, she said,

"It's too late,
I should have given you that on Friday."

Do laugh cos it is funny, isn't it?
It's fucking hilarious is what it is.

We had a right laugh.
I said, "What am I supposed to do?"

She said, "I'm afraid there's nothing
you can do except go home and relax.

Shingles is stress related.
You need to try and calm down."

And nothing chills you out like a couple
of weeks at home sat on your couch

mopping pus off your tits.

Every day felt like a holiday
in the Bahamas, it really did.

I'd shout, "Bring us
another kitchen roll and some Lilt.

I'm having the time of my life here,
I really am."

I don't think I really got shingles
because of Twitter, if I'm honest.

To be honest I've got bigger stuff
to worry about than audience members.

Since my last tour,
I've got married and had a child.

Which is why the tour's called
The Old Man, in the colloquial sense.

Ah!

The applause of people who don't
have to live with me there. Well done.

You're all off the hook. So I called it
The Old Man in the colloquial sense.

"What's the old man up to?"
"He's upstairs turning lights off."

I've been very lucky to find the woman
who completes me.

My wife
is very good at turning lights on.

Leaving the fridge door open,
that kind of thing.

"You getting anything out of the fridge?

Didn't think so
since you're in the fucking lounge!"

Say it to her face, Jon.
Say it to her face, Jon.

No, thank you,
she'll find out when the DVD comes out.

And by then I'll be in the shed.

Um, no, I'm very lucky
to have got married, let's be honest.

Cos these aren't jokes,
I'm like this all the time.

It can grate a bit, I'll level with you.

And I have to thank TV advertisers,
really, for teaching me about women.

Cos I'd never had a long relationship,
I didn't know what women liked.

But I'd watch telly
and during the adverts,

I'd think if this is how big
companies appeal to women,

having researched, these must be
the things that women like.

So I'd use that information
when we were courting.

If it was a nice day I'd say,
"The sun's out.

Would you like to go to the park
and eat a yogurt?“

I never knew how much you women
like a yogurt in the park.

I eat mine at home, sometimes
at the fridge door. I'll knock one down.

I didn't realise
I should be getting dressed up

and taking the thing
to the frigging park!

Watched the adverts. She hasn't got
a bag with her so she's not out anyway.

That's a sliver spoon.
She's brought that from home.

This is a planned yogurt

So we had some lovely yogurt days out.
Uh...

Some companies lie to you,
you have to be careful.

The roller blades I got for her period,
she's never used them.

Not once.

Not even to make me feel better.
Still in the box with the white jeans.

Unbelievable.

Contacted Bodyform for a refund.
They say it's not their responsibility.

Unacceptable.
But she agreed to marry me.

We had a lovely wedding day.

People say, "Your wedding day
is one of the best days of your life."

You'll know if you're planning
a wedding, it really is.

The reason the wedding day
is one of the best days of your life

is for me
that's the day that as a couple

you really stop planning a wedding.

Don't get me wrong, I'm a fan of admin,

but that pushed me to the very brink,
it really did.

I didn't know
you had to plan everything.

Why would I pick the flowers?

I don't know about flowers and I'll let
you know a secret. I don't give a shit.

I don't care.

If my wife says, "Do you remember
Mark and Becky's wedding?"

I don't say,
"Remember it? Those chrysanthemums."

I'll tell you what I remember
about every wedding I've ever been to.

What time the bar opened
and how much a pint was.

A wedding's a party, innit?

Get everyone you love in a room
and get 'em drunk. It's that simple.

Who are these people
keeping the bar shut till after dinner?

Are you worried people are gonna
have fun too early? Get the bar open.

"Don't worry, there's a bottle of each
on the table at dinner."

ls there? Lovely nice warm bottle
of white wine between 12 of us.

That will lube up the chit-chat.

When you get back from the honeymoon,
we'll have a chinwag

about how interesting
you think your friends are.

Just get the bar open.
I don't understand.

There's so much rigmarole around
weddings that doesn't need to be there.

I didn't want to cut the cake.

I don't understand why, in the 21st
century, we're still making a display.

I think people have seen cake now.

You don't need to call them back
in the room.

"Get in there, they're gonna slice up
a fruit loaf!" "Holy shit!"

"Don't forget your camera."

"Yeah, better get a picture.
No one's gonna believe this!"

And then they slice the cake! Live!

Just slice the cake, hand it out.

No one's gonna eat the fucking thing,
let's be honest.

I didn't want any dancing.
I didn't want a first dance.

I didn't want a dance floor.
I don't like dancing.

I think it's for arrogant people
who can't communicate verbally.

Just stand still and enjoy the music.

What's wrong with you people,
skipping around all over the place?

You should be punished.
You should get put on telly in sequins.

You should be masking taped
to the floor.

I'm gonna put an album on

and I want you to try and enjoy that
cerebrally with the rest of us.

Skipping around like a prick.

They're the same people
who sing along to music

that's in their headphones,
those arseholes.

"Oh, sorry, was I too
in the vibe?" "No, you're a prick."

"That's the main problem I'm having
with you there."

I just didn't want any dancing,
I don't like it, you know.

I'll be honest with you,
I can't think of a punishment worse

than you getting everybody I love
in a room, making them form a circle,

and making me dance in the middle of it.

I wouldn't do that any day of my life,

let alone the one day I've paid
for all of these pricks to have dinner.

What a curious thank you that is.

"That was a lovely meal,
now dance for your grandma!"

I'd rather they watched us consummate
the wedding, I'm not gonna lie to you.

I'd have been happier tapping
a champagne glass.

"Do you want to come upstairs?
We're gonna have the first shag now."

"Everybody up. Come on, family occasion,
this. Bring your cameras."

Would have been quicker,
I'll tell you that.

Four minutes that song was.
Four minutes.

And I had to audition for that
in my own house.

She'd never seen me dance, my wife.
We don't go dancing,

in the same way we don't go
pole vaulting of a weekend.

Not an activity we share.

She stopped the telly
one afternoon and went,

"Show me your dancing
so I know what we're working with."

Middle of the afternoon, no music on,
I had to start...

"Is it this?"

She was really staring at me like that.

I thought,
"Bloody hell, I'm nailing this."

She spoke up after a couple of hours.

She said... she said,
"Why are your shoulders like that?"

I said, "I'm not even thinking
about my bloody shoulders!

Why aren't you looking at this?
I'm doing all of that, you know.

Left foot, bounce, right foot, bounce."

She said, "You need to move
your shoulders as well, Jon."

I said, "Well, I can do,
but something else will stop."

There's just a limit
to how many body pans

I can be thinking about
at the same time.

And she said, "I know that, Jon."

I still don't understand that one.

So the agreement was that
we would hold each other and sway.

That was the agreement. She whispered
into my ear, halfway through the dance.

She said, and I'll never forget this,

"Stop spinning.
You're making me feel sick."

I was going too fast apparently,

but that's her fault
for not giving me an RPM, you know.

I need facts and figures.

I knew something was wrong when
I felt her feet lift off the ground.

I thought, "Bit too much
centrifugal force on this.

It's more of a twizzle than a dance."
But I was having such fun at that point.

So we had a lovely wedding day.

You go into an odd phase
once you're married.

You son of relax into the relationship.
I've never... I've always felt...

Up until that point,
I've been single most of my life.

I always felt that was the bravest
thing, to face life on your own,

with all the horrors,
is the bravest thing.

I've realised now
it's actually braver to love people

cos you've still got all that crap
going on in the world

but now you've got
other people to care about

and worry about and try and protect.
You know, I love my wife

so I feel I've made a commitment
to try and make her life perfect.

I want every second of every day
of her life to be perfect.

Now sometimes, that means
I've got to follow her round the house

and tell her what she's doing wrong.

Because I think
she obviously hasn't noticed so...

I'll have to tell her
because I love her that much.

Now it turns out some people aren't
ready to be loved as fiercely as I love.

I love from the first minute of the day
to the last, and she describes that

as quite claustrophobic at times,
I won't lie to you.

I'm not just being an arsehole.
None of it's just like mad rules.

I don't say, "We only eat
green things on Wednesdays."

Everything I do
is because I've looked at it

and I think if we carry on
doing that this way,

one day we're all gonna die,
that's the conclusion.

So I have rules and regulations
for doing certain things

in order to protect the people I love.
I don't mean protect...

I don't want this to be seen
as chauvinist material.

This isn't a man protecting a woman.

I don't mean it
in a Liam Neeson kind of,

"if somebody takes you,
I will find you."

Liam Neeson there from the films.

So you've seen them.

I don't mean it like that.

My wife's very aware
if she got taken in that sense,

I'm probably not gonna get there
in time, let's be honest.

It's not my strength.

Travel's too tense, isn't it?
It's not like that.

In the films, she gets taken,
he's killing people in the next scene.

It's not like that.
You have to book your flights,

find your passport
get to the airport

Do you drive to the airport
or get a taxi?

You wanna drive cos then you're
straight off but you've gotta park.

They don't show any of that
cos that would be a weird scene.

Cutting from her getting tortured
to him on that little bus.

"Oh, excuse me, sorry!
Have a lovely holiday."

He's on the flight four or five hours,
he must eat something,

but again, that would look weird.

"Can I ask, is the pie gluten free?"

"Are you off on your holidays?"

"Oh, no, no, my wife's been abducted.

Yes. On my way to kill the assailants
but I'm bloody useless hungry.

I'll have something to eat. I'll have
the shiraz as well. That'll settle me."

It's not protect in that sense.

If you love people, protecting them is
making sure they're happy and motivated

and they eat right and they sleep
and all those things.

And some of it
is making sure they don't come to harm.

For example, if we drive somewhere,

I tend to drive
cos I've passed my test and she hasn't,

so that's the first thing I do.

I've noticed over the years,
we'll get somewhere,

Morrisons if it's a special day,

she'll wander off
and she'll shut the door backhand

as she's walking away from the car.

Lovely technique,
I'm not questioning that. Very sexy.

Federer-esque.
Sometimes she's not even looking.

Just ding, like that, walking away.
Lovely. Just enough weight.

A lot of people who don't drive,
I find they'll slam a car door.

She just puts enough on it.

Sometimes I think,
"That's not gonna... Oh, it has."

Oh.

Oh!

That's just clicked in, that's nice.
That's nice.

So I've got no qualms with that.

Some people say I'm a bit too into
the way she closes doors and it's weird.

But if you've never watched a loved one
shut a door, just sit back and enjoy it.

Anyway, what I've noticed is,
over the years,

is she tends to push the window
of the car door like that.

You don't push glass, do you?
Glass isn't for pushing.

It's brittle,
especially in the winter months

when it contracts
by night and expands by day.

It's getting more brittle.
One day when we get to Morrisons,

she'll push the window,
the glass is gonna shatter,

slice her arm open,
she's gonna bleed to death.

Thanks for all your laughs there,
I appreciate that.

"What was your favourite bit?"
"When his wife died."

"Pissed myself."

I don't want that to happen
so I'll remind her.

"When you shut the door,
could you just do it like that?

Couple of inches this side.
That's all I'm after.

Use the frame
then I don't need to worry about you.

I don't want harm to come to you
because I love you."

Now, she doesn't see the love.

She sees me more as a son of pernickety
little health and safety goblin.

Always just there with my clipboard
looking for code violations.

And I know this
cos we got somewhere the other week,

she went to get something
out of her bag,

and I thought I'll get the door for her
cos it's nice to be nice.

She was already out the car,
she didn't know I was there

to hear the little voice
she does for me.

The little voice she does every time
she shuts a car door now apparently.

Let's be honest,
your partner's got two voices for you.

They've got the one they do to you
and the real one.

She didn't know
I could hear the real one.

So I come round to hear her going,
"Oh-oh! Mind the glass!"

Exactly that.

I pictured it immediately when I'm away
and all her friends are round.

They're getting pissed up
and I hear her say,

“He was giving it all...
'Oh, put it on a coaster, please!“

"In the middle of sex."

Fun's fun, innit?
But a stain lasts forever.

She wanted the expensive bedside table.

Anyway... It's not the time.
I think how many other times

in my life have I done what I think is
the right thing for the person I love

and she thinks
I'm just being an arsehole?

I look back over our time. The pregnancy
was one of the most stressful times.

Very intense period. Very hard.

Looking back, I will admit it was
probably harder on her than me.

It's important to admit these things
in modern Britain.

I think she had a tougher time
in the pregnancy than me,

but for your partner
that's the hard thing.

When a body's going through
the most remarkable thing

a human body can go through,

and you can't do anything,
I was just watching.

I felt absolutely useless.
I did my bit right at the beginning.

Really quick.

And then I was just there.

I did tidying and stuff like that
but let's be honest that doesn't count.

At no point was my wife looking at me
thinking,

"I'll just grow this thing inside me.

I won't eat the things I like.
I won't have a single drink.

I won't sleep
in the position I'm used to.

Every day will be agony.
I'll puke up most of them.

But since you've done the hoovering
we'll call it one all."

It's just an irrelevance, isn't it?

It's like handing out wet wipes
at a car accident.

"There you go. You've got some there.
I'm here to help. Thank you!"

Don't get me wrong, I did more

than I think most people do
for their partners during pregnancy.

She would keep telling me things
that might happen during the birth.

And things that you learn
as you go through it.

If we knew those things we wouldn't get
into that situation at the beginning.

She said, “You need to know something
that might happen during the birth.“

This is quite a sensitive topic
and she's not here to defend herself.

Let's use an analogy. My wife is a car
and the baby is a passenger inside.

My wife's not a car,
she's a beautiful lady.

If she were a car,
she'd be the brand-new... car.

Whatever the best one is.

I don't know enough about cars
for that to be a compliment.

The things I like about women and cars
are different.

I like storage
but you can't say that about a woman.

I've yet to ask my wife
how many cups she can hold.

But the Ford C Max can hold eight
and that is unbeatable.

That is... That's more
than you can get people in the car!

Can you imagine
how popular I am in my area?

"Do you want to come for a drive?"
Bring a drink. Fuck it, bring two."

"Mr Richardson!"

So... Now, the ideal birth scenario
is that you pull gently in,

you open the door calmly,
the baby steps gently out,

you close the door, not by the glass,
and we all move along on our business.

That's ideal scenario.

My wife said, "You need to know
something that might happen."

I thought she was gonna say
one I already knew.

I'd done a bit of research.

I'd watched a few One Born Every Minutes
to see how it goes.

I thought she was gonna say,
“What might happen during the birth

is sometimes that back door swings open
and other people get out of the car."

I was ready for that,
I've seen it happen.

I know my job there
is not to create a scene, is it?

That's just the nature of pushing.

I'm not supposed to go,
"Who the fuck are these guys?"

"They must have got in
when I was getting petrol."

You stay away
and you keep your mouth shut.

I was all ready for that. Anyway,
she went a different way with it.

What she said was,
“Sometimes during the birth, Jon,

you go to open the car door like that

and you rip the whole side
of the car off."

Ooh!

That sounds like
it might sting a little bit.

I didn't know that was a thing.
Most men don't know that's a thing.

If men had to give birth,
when that happened to the first man,

no more babies.

We'd have told each other about that.

A WhatsApp group
would have been formed immediately.

"Subject: Gary."

"Did you hear about Gary? All
that middle bit." "Ooh, you bastard!"

"No, no. No, no, we'll get a dog."

We'll get a dog. I'll put clothes on it
and call it Barry.

You're not having that middle bit.
That's my bit, that's a joining bit.

She told me that and I was horrified.

I said, "I can't believe that might
happen to you and I can't do anything."

She said, "Actually,
there is something you can do."

I said, "Whatever it is, I'll do it."

If you're gonna get
that far ahead of me,

you can finish the gig now
and leave to be honest.

We have some midwives in the audience,
I suspect, this evening.

And I said, "What is it?"

She said, "You can go on the internet
and you can buy a special kind of oil.

It's a special oil
called perineal massage oil."

Now if you're new to the perineum,
welcome to Perineum Club.

First rule of Perineum Club,
wash your hands.

Now the perineum
is the little strip of metal

between the front and back doors
of the car.

It's...
It's a structurally integral piece

and it should be loved and cherished

and looked after and it does not
get the respect it deserves,

so you buy this oil for it.
It's a special oil.

That's a real company. It's run
by a retired midwife called Jan.

She'll send you out this oil,
she'll send a little email to say,

"Good luck. I hope everything goes well.
Love, Jan."

And the reason I tell you that
is her full name is Jan Bastard.

And that's funny.

Anyway, you buy the oil. It's called
Down Below perineal massage oil.

She hasn't called it Bastard Juice
cos she has some business savvy.

She's not making the game harder
for herself than it already is.

The oil comes out and what you do is

every night for the last few months of
the pregnancy, for a bit.

Erm...

That's as much detail as we need
to go into. That's your partner's job.

If you're pregnant,
as much as you'd like to, you can't.

It's a bit like being married
to a I-Rex at the end.

The reach has gone
but the anger has shot up.

That was... That was my job

so I would put the oil on.
I'd stay in my chair like that.

She'd come round to me
and I would do the thing every night.

Every night while it was happening,
I would think to myself, "What a guy."

I know that's awful
and I shouldn't own up to it,

but every night all I was thinking was,

"This is exceptional work,
this really is.

At this moment now, you are in
the top ten husbands in the country.

There is no question about that."

My dad didn't do that for my mum.
I've never asked him, I don't need to.

It was a different time back then.

There weren't even perinea back then
when I was born.

The perineum came out in the breakdown
of Yugoslavia in the early '90s.

I didn't happen. I think
this is incredible I'm doing this.

Give us a cheer
if you've done that for your partner.

Two.

Two! And they're fucking shy about it,
aren't they?

That's because the minute they said that
they got that.

Three of us.

So the rest of you pay us some respect

because you've never been
where we've been.

You've never earned the Brownie points
that we have.

And that probably isn't the best word
for them, to be honest.

You do slip with all that oil. Um...

So I'd be sat there,
my wife would come round to me.

And I would think about
what a great guy I was.

She had to correct me on two occasions

and remind me
I'm not the great guy I think I am.

If you've seen the news lately,

it's mainly women having to remind men
they have an opinion too.

They don't always tally,
those opinions, do they?

What she said was, "To be honest,
Jon..." Sometimes I would forget.

Sometimes we'd be sat watching telly,

we'd get to the adverts,
I'd hear tutting, I'd look over.

She's scooching the oil over,
looking angry.

I'd get a bit annoyed then,
I'm not gonna lie.

I'd think,
"I'm gonna fucking do it, love.

You don't need to give me shit
for not skipping in from work

saying, 'Bend over, I'll get
the Bastard Juice out of the cupboard."'

"You only have to ask, I'm gonna do it."

She said to me, "What it is, Jon,

I don't particularly enjoy
this thing that we do.

If I have to ask you to do it to me,
that feels a bit weird, to be honest."

I'd never seen
that side of it whatsoever.

I never entertained...

She doesn't go near the bits of me
I don't want her to see.

They're mostly emotional but...

I certainly don't ever
pause the telly and say,

"You wouldn't cream up my bumhole
for five minutes, would you, love?"

"I can't get to it!"

"Just get that cream we got
from Steve Shit-Sniffer over there."

"Get some of that right up there,
be a cherub."

It's a horrifically embarrassing thing
and I make her ask to have it done.

I make her say, "Excuse me, my liege,

wouldst thou massage the perineum
of a sad Wench such as I?" Oh, God!

I said, "I'm so sorry, I feel awful.

Give me the oil,
we'll keep it here next to my chair

where we keep the remote controls."

She puts the volume on nine to upset me.
I can't be doing with it.

"What do you wanna watch next?"
"Anything that's one fucking louder."

Even then she'd come round
and we'd be doing the thing,

and one of the other things
I didn't know about pregnancy,

your hips just splay out
cos of the weight of this.

They just piss off
in different directions.

So she's coming round
like a son of John Wayne crab.

"Get off your horse
and massage my perineum, boy."

Every step was absolute agony.

I'm sitting there thinking,
"What a lucky lady."

She'd come round and she'd have
to support herself on my shoulders

and bend like a son of closed bracket.

I could feel her
looking into the top of my head.

I thought I won't look up
because that's why she's looking.

That's what I'd be doing: role reversal.

I'd be looking down, saying, "Let's not
make eye contact now, shall we?

This is not a romantic dinner, this is
a job that's happening like grouting.

Just finish."

"Then we're married again
when I'm over there, all right?"

I thought... You know like a dog looks
at you when it's going to the toilet?

It's not checking you're having fun,
is it, a dog?

A dog's not looking at you going,
"Come closer, for heaven's sake!

Enjoy it! This is a good one,
it's got green in it. You like green!

Ah, there's that tinfoil. It Was me!"

A dog is obviously asking
for privacy, isn't it?

That's why the eyebrows furrow.

A dog is obviously saying,
"What are you staring at?

Could I have a minute to have a shit
in the park, please?

I'm tied to you.
How far do you think I'm gonna get?"

"You who loves me the most

could just behind a tree
while I have a shit in public.

You don't shit here, you've got that
little room, I've seen you go in there.

I know what you do in there.

I'm not allowed in there
for a drink, never mind a shit!"

So I thought I won't look up.

It never occurred to me
she wanted me to look up.

She was looking at me cos she was
in pain and she was embarrassed

and she wanted me as the person
who loves her the most in the world

to look up and say,
"You look unbelievable

and you're doing more for our child
before she's even been born

than I could ever dream of.
It's remarkable."

And all that is 100 per cent true.

I only found out I was supposed
to be saying that the night I wondered

if while I was doing it,
I could look round her

and carry on watching Eggheads.

So that night we had a big chat.

Sometimes in your marriage you've got
to sit down and have a big chat.

You might call them arguments,
I prefer big chat. It's less tense.

I'd never argued before.
I didn't realise it was all right.

I just thought when we argue,
we'll get divorced.

She's had to remind me
couples just argue. Small things.

She says, "You don't like avocados
and I do, we'll get over this one."

And now they become fun.
It's like match day.

You wake up and think,
"We're gonna have an argument today."

"A good old argument about teatime.

I'll do that thing where
I stop listening halfway through

and pretend I've won."

If you've never done that,
that's a real treat, that really is.

Stop listening. Whatever they say,

just say, "if you have to descend
to that, this one's already over."

It just absolutely drives
them fucking insane, it really does.

And I look back and we argue
mostly in front of the telly,

which seems odd to me
cos it's quite a banal thing.

It's a key pan of relationships,
rightly or wrongly.

You're tired when you get in,
you watch a bit of telly.

We argue a lot.
Now, I've looked back,

I can only conclude it's cos
she doesn't watch telly correctly.

I know, you're right to laugh. How do
you get something so simple so wrong?

But um... What she does,
she talks to me while it's on.

Now that can't be right, can it?

Because I'm watching that,
that's where my attention is.

I can't hear her. I watch telly like
there's gonna be a test on it one day

and if I fail, I'm gonna die.

Someone's gonna have a gun to my head

and say, "Gyles Brandreth investigated
albatrosses on The One Show.

True or false?"
I need to know everything immediately.

So I watch tense
and I can't hear anything else.

When I lived on my own,
I didn't put the telly on

and then pop the radio on
for a bit of added content.

I can't hear.

So I'm watching telly and she says
something. I can't hear it.

So I pause the telly
so I can ask her what she said.

I'd rather talk to my wife
than watch a shitty bit of telly,

so I pause the telly and say,
"What did you say?"

By which I mean, "You shut up.
What did you say, the love of my life?"

She doesn't see the love.

She sees the pausing of the telly

a tad more passive aggressively
than that if I'm honest.

She sees the pausing slightly more
as a "Fucking now what?"

Which it absolutely isn't.

I don't care about the telly,
I just want to know what she's said.

But the tension of the room going silent
and me staring at her.

It's like I've gone round
the neighbours' house.

"Sorry to interrupt your dinner.

She's got a story,
do you want to listen to it?"

So the tension is annoying.
I say, "What do you say?"

She'll say, "it doesn't matter if you're
gonna be a prick. Start the programme."

I say, "No, I want to talk.
What did you say?"

She'll say, "It doesn't matter."
Then we have another problem.

She's just talking the way you would

if you were walking through the park
or enjoying a meal.

She's sharing the experience with me

because for some reason,
she enjoys my company, right?

So I say, "What did you say?"

And she'll say, "I just said
that's like the place we went."

"Yes...?

Shall we crack on then?"

And I feel like I'm being an arsehole
but I just don't know what to say.

That's just a statement.
I can only agree with it.

Sometimes I force an opinion. I'll say,
"Yes, the tablecloths are green."

Then I know I've got that wrong and I
feel bad. I don't know what to say.

We start the programme again.

She says something else, I pause it.
She goes upstairs the second time.

She'd rather sit alone in the darkness

than watch TV with the piece of shit
she's betrothed the rest of her life to.

I feel awful but I've never explained to
her how stressful I find watching telly.

I don't really watch telly
for the joy of what's on.

I watch telly so we can get to the end
of that programme, delete it,

and get the memory back up
on the planner.

I don't watch telly, I tidy up.
She says, "What do you wanna watch?"

I think, "That's three per cent
so let's get rid of that fucking thing.

Get rid of that.
We'll get back above 30 per cent

and I can start
sleeping at night again.“

Cos when I go away, she records stuff.

She thinks it's like a kitchen cupboard,

cram it full of delicious things
to choose from.

She doesn't understand it's a to-do
list. Everything on there is a task.

I look at it when I get back. I think,
Psycho Pussies: When Cats Attack?

When are we gonna watch that?

We still haven't
watched those bloody...

fucking thing
that I say there that's funny.

"What was your favourite bit?"
"When he fucked it up. I loved that.

I liked the things
but the shit things were the best."

When are we gonna watch that?

We still haven't watched those bloody
Wolf Halls we recorded two years ago.

I think, "We're gonna have to go through
these new ones at the weekly meeting."

She doesn't know
we have a weekly meeting.

She thinks I get up early on Wednesdays
and put a suit on.

But I can't handle the pressure of it.

What happens is,
I don't like to work at weekends really

during I Factor
and Britain's Got Talent.

Cos they're three per cent
once you get the extra show in

and the next one on the Sunday.

I can't be doing with that
so it's easier to just stay in.

When I get back,
there's five or six of them.

I say, "Are you gonna watch
these I Factors?"

She says, "No, you can delete all them."

She does that... I thought she recorded
I Factor to hurt my feelings.

Because she records it
while she's watching it,

which is a bit like phoning a takeaway
in the middle of your tea, really.

It's happening now, we're having it.
I found out that what happens is,

I get back and say,
"Are you gonna watch all these?"

She says, "No, you can delete them."
Something happens to my face

if I get to delete ten per cent
or more in one go

that has obviously never happened
during sex

and didn't happen on our wedding day.
She'll say, "You can delete all them."

I go...

I'll go and get my cock out. Hang on.

But more often than not, it ends in an
argument, she goes to bed, I feel awful.

I go in the kitchen and get a whisky.
I see the dishwashers finished.

I think, "I'll unload the dishwasher cos
she made tea and loaded the dishwasher."

On that occasion, not every night.
I'm not an arsehole.

That's how we operate.

We used to do what I'm sure
a lot of you do if you cohabit.

One would cook,
the other one would wash up.

We knocked that on the head
quite early doors

cos I tend to tidy up as I go
while I'm cooking and she doesn't.

That's not a problem, that's two people
who do things differently.

She does it her way and I do it right.

I can't help myself. I run a little dish
of soapy water at the beginning

and I'll pop the chopping knife,
do that at the time.

Pop it in soak.
If you don't wanna wash it, that's fine.

Pop it in soak.
Put a bit of water in there.

Got the beans out, pop a bit of water
in there. Bit of water in there.

Let's not put it straight back
on the ring there.

Don't put it straight back on the ring
with that teaspoon of bean juice in it

and the residual heat of the ring there
just burning that on

like a glaze in a kiln.

You keep scrubbing, it doesn't come off.
It's just an orange pan now.

Everything's orange.

Sometimes I go in the kitchen,
I think I'm getting cataracts.

Residual bean juice everywhere.

Same with your baking trays.

Tip your roasties out, bit of water
in there, back in the oven.

Shut the door. The residual heat
of the oven boils that water,

lifts all the grease off, you tip that
away, you've washed the thing already.

You can write that down,
that's fucking gold.

Oh!

You're very kind,
but I wish that hadn't been

the biggest reception of the evening.

Sometimes I think maybe
I'm one of them political comedians.

And then I see that and I think
maybe I'm Prue Leith on tour.

That's a lovely tip. That works
for cottage pie, lasagne, anything.

It just slides straight off.

Washing-up becomes sexual.
I do it naked when she's gone to bed.

Just get it right off there
with your finger, it slides right off.

You just pop it in soak.
What that would mean is,

I'd do a Sunday roast sometimes,

she'll go to wash up,
there's only a spoon and a plate.

The next day she makes me a sandwich...

A fucking bomb's gone off in there.

She's used everything we own.

Sometimes I can't even
get in the kitchen door.

I have to go in the garden
and climb in the window like that.

Stand on the worktop shouting through.
"How have you used a tagine?"

So now the rule is you do everything,
you get the next night off.

That's fairest, right,

but what it does mean is emptying the
dishwasher is one of those weird jobs.

It's hours after the event.

I'll see it's finished,
I'll open the door, pull the drawer out.

To be fair, she'll often come back down
from bed then

cos she can hear me screaming.

She'll say, "What's the matter,
is it a spider?"

I'll say, "No, it's the dishwasher."
She says, "You're joking?"

I say, “No. Get comfortable
while we go through it all.“

Then we'll go through the litany
of crimes that's happened in here.

Because like so many people,
she seems to believe this is a magic box

that cleans anything
in roughly its vicinity,

on the worktop, in the living room.

If you love your family, you load this
with the attention of a psychopath.

Everything has its place.

I say, "It's this bowl
that caught my attention first of all.

This upturned bowl here
on the top shelf.

It's not wrong to put a bowl
on the top shelf

on a light load, on a light load,
on a light load, on a light load.

Malfunctioned a bit there, I am sorry.

We tend to put the bowls down here
on the bottom shelf

where the rungs are a bit wider.
That tips the bowls forward,

you get more purchase underneath
to get that filth off.

What you've done here is
perfectly acceptable on a light load."

"I just noticed you've put this upturned
bowl on top of an upturned plate."

"Really had to ask how you thought
that was ever gonna get clean in there."

"You've created a hermetically sealed
environment here.

There's nowhere for the water to go.
There's only water in that box.

Little people don't come in the back
and lift everything.

'Give us a hand with this one,
bloody hell."'

Pick it up. I say, "Look, that's
the same as when it went in, that one.

Except now it's warm and damp
and a day old.

Don't you see how dangerous that is?

You couldn't grow mould in a more
efficient environment than that.

We'll put that one there.
That'll have to be done again.

Let's start a little pile.“

"This plate will have to be done again.

I know the underside is clean
that we eat off, but this side's filthy.

When we stack it that's gonna touch
the eating side of the one underneath.

We'll do that one again. Now this wine
glass on its side... Oh, I'm sorry?

Oh, we're both tired."

"Unbelievable.

Think this is a hobby of mine at three
o'clock in the morning, do you?

This wine glass on its side,
that'll have to be done again.

By hand, as per the note."

"Don't know if you're getting my emails.
You never reply.

Push the drawer down.
Now if you'll come downstairs with me.

We've fallen foul of the old two-spoon
rule there, haven't we?

Two spoons in the same... Hmm?

It does look like one spoon.
It does look like one spoon.

And that's the problem, you see.
They've tessellated together.

That's why we call it spooning.
They've gone together.

It looks like one lovely clean spoon,
doesn't it?

If I just fan them out, look,

you'll see it's the front and back
of two filthy spoons, isn't it?

State of that, all covered in yogurt and
grass. You've been to the park again."

"Now, this is where
I've had to fail you.

This is your major fault.

The bread knife
in the cutlery tray there.

Of course it's called a knife.
I can see why you've put it in there.

If you come down with me, it's not a
semantic issue, it's an issue of height.

The breadknife's
too tall to go underneath,

isn't he, Mr Breadknife? He's too tall.

He's stopped the propeller
going round there, hasn't he?

You've shut the door, the propeller
has smashed into the breadknife

and in fairness spent 108 minutes
washing the shit out of all this."

"Everything on this axis is absolutely
impeccable. I can't fault you on that.

Sadly it's just all the rest of it
has been a complete waste of both...

I wonder when she left.
I didn't hear the door."

So...

We've reached the end.
I'm not gonna lie to you,

I put that bit at the end not
necessarily cos I think it's funniest

but just so you argue on the way home.

Just my little gift to you.
I'll get messages after the show.

"I've never heard people screaming
on the bus about dishwashers before."

I did it in London,
someone messaged to say,

"I've just heard a woman
shout on the Tube,

'What do you mean, you restack it
when I've gone to bed?"'

I did that, I brought that tension
into a previously happy marriage.

If I can do that for just one of you
this evening, it's all been worth it.

So um...

Probably not, I don't think. Um...

A couple of you going,
"I think it's near the end.

Oh no, he's still talking."

"Let's let him fucking finish,
shall we, now, to be honest?

You keep clapping,
you're just slowing it down

for the rest of us to be honest." Um...

That is the end, and when I say it's the
end, I want you to know it's the end.

So I'm gonna go and I am gonna go,
so don't wait for that extra bit.

I don't do that bit cos frankly
the arrogance of it blows my mind.

That I would write a whole show

then snip the end bit off
and say, "I'll do that

once they've shown some gratitude
for what's gone before."

As if in any other job you can lap round
your office at five o'clock and say,

"I'm gonna stay till six.

I just thought you'd wanna tell me
how good I've been so far today."

This'll come out at Christmas

so two cardigans will look fucking
sensible then, but I tell you what,

in summer, this has been an absolute
fucking disaster of a career move.

It really has!

Wowzer. What an awful choice.

Um... So as you leave tonight,
I know this is a slight imposition,

but there's a few buckets on the exits.
If you have any spare change at all,

there's a collection for a charity
I'm a patron for.

Which is... Sorry. It's for men
who can only raise one eyebrow.

All right.

I didn't think it was real either
but you know...

Such a shock when you find out
you've got it. You're so surprised.

You can't express that,
you look sarcastic.

That's it. This has been an absolute
treat. I'll remember this for ever.

Thank you so much for coming.
Have a safe journey home. Take care.