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To say that yesterday’s wedding went without a hitch wouldn’t be entirely accurate. For a start, Sean and Emily were married. Sorry, should I maybe have built a bit more suspense? But that wasn’t the only hitch of the day. One of the guests, an eccentric seventy-nine-year-old, decided to attend the ceremony in a kilt. Forty-five minutes before the wedding, he realised that he’d left it at home in Rotherham. He decided that he would have time to drive back home, get his kilt, and return to the venue in time for the ceremony. He didn’t tell anyone about this. I think, if he had, then they would have pointed out that it was unlikely to take him only forty minutes to drive from Sheffield to Rotherham and back.

At 3 o’clock, everyone was in their seat ready for the wedding to start, which it was due to do at 3 o’clock. However, someone was missing. It was Ian, the man who’d gone home for his kilt; except, no one knew this. As far as we were aware he was at the venue, as we’d seen him only an hour ago. We searched around the venue grounds, went to his room, which was in the venue that the wedding was taking place, but he was nowhere to be found. The registrars had to be at another wedding in the next hour, and so they couldn’t afford to wait around. So the wedding started without him.

He did make some of the wedding ceremony, but just not the wedding part, for by the time he made it back, Sean and Emily had already been married. But at least he got to see Sean and Emily signing some legal documents. Although, no one else was really looking at the legal documents signing, because they were all staring at the man who’d just come crashing into the wedding, out of breath, desperately trying to finish fastening his kilt. He then whispered to the woman next to him – although it was a very loud whisper, probably as a result of his deafness – “Would you give me a hand with ‘me sporran, love?” As she awkwardly tried to help him with his sporran, he loudly whispered, “have I missed much?” I’m not sure if he’d realised tht he’d missed the actual wedding bit of the ceremony, which might explain why he proceeded to get out a massive, unwieldy, antiquated video camera and start filming. At which point the registrar thanked us for coming, we applauded the newly weds and the ceremony ended.

In the best man speech, I told the story about when Sean and I went hitch hiking around the country together in 2005. I documented our hitch hiking experiences on cassette tape, and I’ll probably dig them out for The Young’uns Podcast, and play some bits and intersperse it with some retrospective detail and anecdotes.

This particular incident I mentioned in my speech was about the day when Sean and I had spent an entire day waiting for a lift. We were so convinced that success was just around the corner, and that if we moved to go to the toilet or get some food then that would mean that we’d miss the one person who’d have picked us up, and we’d then have to wait for hours before another ride presented itself. So we resolutely stood at the roadside, convinced that, any minute now … And so we waited … and waited. Eventually, at some point late evening, someone offered us a lift. We managed to get a hundred miles or so further South. So all in all, it had been a really great day, unless you take into account the fact that we’d spent most of it at the side of the same road with our bladders agonisingly bursting and our stomachs painfully rumbling out of starvation. But apart from that …

By the time we got out of the car, it was about ten o’clock. Everywhere seemed pretty deserted. The only place that was around and open was a McDonald’s. We went into mcDonalds and immediately visited the toilet, for a much needed urinate. We were both starving, and given that there didn’t seem to be anywhere else around, I suggested that we got something from McDonald’s. At this suggestion, Sean went off on a massive rant about global corporations and capitalism. He proudly declared that, starving though he may be, he was not prepared to eat at McDonald’s; instead he would seek out a local independent place to eat. I didn’t hold out muchhope of finding anywhere, but given Sean’s adamance, I accomponied him on a search for a local independent eatery.

We walked for over an hour, with barely any energy to do so, given that we hadn’t eaten for hours. There was nothing else open. We ended up walking in a massive circle, and came back to the McDonald’s that we’d left over an hour earlier. I assumed that, given that we’d done all we could, surely our only option now was to eat at this McDonald’s. But Sean wholeheartedly refused, and proceeded to give me another lecture about global corporations, and proudly declared that he would wait until the morning and then support the local bakery by eating there. We were both ravenous, and this didn’t help our mood, and so we stood in the doorway of McDonald’s, loudly arguing with each other about whether to eat there. I said that I said that if there was a local bakery open, then I’d be happy to eat there, but the fact that there wasn’t meant that we might as well eat at McDonald’s. We didn’t have a choice. But then he retorted by saying that we always have a choice. Our voices were getting louder as our argument got more heated. I tried to reason with him by stating that the people who work at McDonald’s are local, ordinary people, and that by eating at Macdonalds we would be supporting these local workers. I suggested that he should focus on this aspect. Sean countered this by bemoaning the low wages that these people would be getting, and how he didn’t want to support such an infrastructure. I responded by pointing out that he had no idea how much the staff at his precious local bakery were getting paid. The argument went on for quite some time, growing louder and more intense.

In the end, I stormed into McDonald’s and ordered some food, because I felt as if I would pass out if I didn’t get something. Sean stormed in behind me. We both sat at the table, while I ate, and Sean seethed. I offered to share my food with him, reasoning that this would mean that only one of us would have bought a meal, yet he would at least get something to eat. But Sean refused to accept any food, and so we just sat in silence while I hurriedly ate.

We then pitched the tent in silence, by the gates of the McDonald’s, and went straight to bed. I lay there awake for hours, listening to the sound of Sean’s stomach violently rumbling, while he tossed and turned, clearly too hungry to sleep. In the morning he got up early and returned to the tent whistling, for he had been to the local bakery and bought loads of food.

Nowadays, Sean will happily eat at a McDonald’s. I would prefer not to, if there are other options, but there have been times when there are other options and Sean has plucked for the McDonald’s. I mentioned this in my speech and bemoaned the fact that as Sean grew older, he let his principles slip, and lowered his very high ideals and standards. He became jaded and warn down by life, and became happy to settle for less. At which point I hilariously said, “which neatly brings me to the subject of Emily.” I believe it is customary for the best man to insult the bride in his speech.

However, my hilarious joke worked on two levels,because I then tied it into the story of Emily and Sean’s first date, which was at Nando’s, a global chain. I then pulled off another amazing bit of comedy, when I turned to Emily, and said, “it was Nando’s, wasn’t it?” After she had said yes, I responded with, “yes, nando’s. Just chickin.” As you would imagine, the audience went wild, I was lifted into the air and did a crowd-surfed lap of honour.

The other hitch was related to the DJ. The venue said that if they wanted a DJ then they would have to use the venue’s in-house DJ. If this was the Sean of eleven years ago then he would have put his foot down and ranted about wanting to support an independent local DJ, but the modern day Sean simply agreed to this rule.

The DJ didn’t get off to the best start. We all stood around Sean and Emily, ready to watch their first dance.

“Ladies and gentlemen, let’s hear it for the happy couple, Sean and Emma,” he shouted. Some people laughed, some people pulled a face at the DJ, others shouted “Emily, she’s called Emily.” I think that, being quite drunk, I found it massively hilarious, and I raised my glass and loudly shouted, “to Sean and Emma.”

“Come on,” the DJ continued, “that was terrible. I can’t hear you. Let’s try again. Raise your glasses to the happy couple, Sean and Emma.”

“To Sean and Emma!” I shouted again, raising my glass and drunkenly cackling. Someone went up to the DJ and told him that it was Emily. He eventually got it right the third time.

“And now, the first dance,” he announced. A hush descended over the room, followed by a loud, cacophonous series of crackles and pops. At first, I wasn’t sure whether this was deliberate, and perhaps Sean and Emily had chosen some John Cage for their first dance, but then I noticed that they weren’t dancing. After about thirty seconds, before the DJ tried to announce that he was having a few technical problems, except the mic wasn’t working, so he tried to loudly shout above the din. The crackling continued, and he nervously started fiddling with wires, while testing the microphone by shouting “one two one two,” and then loudly shouting things at us off the mic in order to desperately stall for time. “OK, while I try and sort this out, let’s have a rendition of For He’s A Jolly Good Fellow, for Sean and Emma.” In his flusterment – I know that’s not actually a word, but it should be – he’d obviously forgotten the Emma/Emily debacle from just a couple of minutes earlier. He’d also failed to realise the absurdity of singing For He’s A Jolly Good fellow to two people, one of whom was a woman, and thus not a fellow. Plus their jolliness was being somewhat tempered by the fact that the DJ kept calling the bride the wrong name, and didn’t seem able to get the music on. He valiantly attempted to get everyone singing the song by singing it himself, while he desperately started wrenching wires out of the back of his equipment which made a series of loud banging sounds to add to the din that was already occurring. A few of us loudly joined in with For He’s A Jolly Good Fellow, finding the ridiculousness of it all immensely funny.

Eventually he managed to get the equipment to work, and he once again announced that it was time for the first dance. He pressed play and music began to emanate from the speakers. Sean and Emily looked around nervously. It was clearly the wrong song. But Sean and Emily are both in their thirties now, and as already discussed earlier in this Dollop, they have had to start accepting things and compromising, lowering their ideals and standards, which is probably why, after a few seconds of standing there and not dancing, they began to awkwardly move to the music, which was something that I didn’t recognise, and nor did they. So they danced their first dance to the wrong song, and we all stood and watched and applauded at the end, even though we all knew that it clearly wasn’t the right song. In fact, the only person who didn’t know was the DJ, who continued to call Emily Emma throughout the night.

Still, despite a disorganised unpunctual eccentric kilt-wearing old man and the world’s worst DJ, everything else went perfectly, and most importantly of all, they got married, which was the main point really. So, wherever you are, whether your reading or listening, let’s raise a real or imaginary glass and let’s toast the happy couple. To Sean and Emma! For he’s a jolly good fellow!

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Well, I went out with Sean last night, and there didn’t seem to be any suggestion that he was getting cold feet. So it looks like the wedding is still on, meaning that I am having to quickly type up this Dollop before leaving for the registry office.

I had a quick look on Twitter for inspiration, and discovered that one of my friends has cut open his thumb. This particular person is one of these people who seems compelled to constantly broadcast the minutiae of his life. Unlike me, he doesn’t have the decency to package it in one easy to manage daily blog, but instead opts to constantly tweet throughout the day. So obsessed is this person with keeping us up-to-date with every bit of ephemeral detail of his life, that it wouldn’t surprise me if he’d literally just cut his thumb open, and then immediately took to Twitter. I think this person has reached the point where he has a thought and then feels compelled to instantly broadcast that thought to his friends. Where as most people would cut their thumb open and get a plaster, his first thought was more likely to have been, “ow, damn, I’ve cut my thumb open, it’s bleeding. Best tweet about it and then get a plaster.”

The tweet read: “just cut my thumb open while gardening. Ow!”

I like the fact that he included, “ow” at the end. I imagine him writing this tweet, blood drenching the phone screen. He’s just about to press the tweet button before he passes out with the pain, but then he has the “ow” idea. His bloody thumb hovers over the tweet button. He can barely move it, yet he valiantly adds those additional two letters. He can feel himself keeling over due to the pain and loss of blood, yet he still bravely soldiers on, and adds the exclamation mark. He begins to faint and falls to the floor. He can’t move his thumb, it has been rendered immobile, But he just manages to hit the tweet button with his nose, before he hits the floor and passes out. Honestly, this person is such an obsessive tweeter, that it wouldn’t surprise me if that actually happened.

This is the kind of person who will tweet every meal he has had. I have never felt compelled to tweet about that sort of thing, although, admittedly, I did bore my friends rigid when I discovered almond milk. I remember calling up my girlfriend and passionately telling her about how I’d discovered almond milk. I don’t rmember anything else about our conversation. To be honest, I wasn’t really listening to her, as I was too excited by the almond milk discovery. I then remember her calling me later that day, and the first thing I did was to tell her that I’d discovered almond milk and how amazing it was. I was so excited about it that I’d forgotten that I’d already bored her with that particular topic earlier that day. She tried to interrupt several times to tell me that I’d already told her, but I was too caught up in my own world of effusively enthusing about almond milk. Now I think about it, I reckon that the almond milk episode might have been one of the moments that made her seriously evaluate what the hell she was doing in a relationship with me. We did break up shortly after this. If only I hadn’t talked about almond milk so much then things might have been so different. Although, in fairness, sleeping with her best friend probably didn’t help either. Anyway, I think, if there’s anything that you should take away from this story, it’s that almond milk is amazing; you should try it.

Interesting that he should mention that the thumb injury was caused by gardening. I wonder whether it is in anyway linked to the fact that it’s World Naked Gardening Day today. This is only something I’m aware of because of a message I received from regular Dollop contributor Katherine, who wrote: “I have a potential subject for tomorrow’s dollop – given that you are not going to have much time to think of anything. I have just come in from doing a spot of gardening in the warm Spring sunshine to discover that tomorrow is World Naked Gardening Day. I am still considering whether or not to take part. To date, I have a good relationship with my neighbours. And I’m concerned about potential skin hazards. So there you are – a challenge, and a way to get out all those un-family-friendly jokes before you make your Best Man’s Speech!”

Thanks for that Katherine, and thanks for adding a hundred words or so to today’s Dollop. You know, I might make the registry office on time after all.

Perhaps the thumb injury was caused by him becoming distracted by his naked neighbours. Maybe he didn’t realise it was World Naked Gardening day, and so, startled by the nudeness all around him, he lost concentration and sliced his thumb open. Or maybe he was taking in part in World Naked Gardening Day, in which case he should count himself lucky that it was only his thumb that he sliced. There might be a few worse gardening injuries than that taking place today.

Must dash, there’s a wedding about to start. Maybe I should have spent this morning thinking up a best man’s speech, rather than writing about naked gardening and almond milk. It’s OK, I’ll think of something during the ceremony. It’s not like I really need to pay much attention. It’ll be the usual “I take you to be my lawful wedded husband,” “I do” shtick. I’ll think of something while all that’s going on. I am a great best man. I’m sure the happy couple are going to love my gift. Who wouldn’t appreciate almond milk?

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Today is The Young’uns’ very own Sean Cooney’s last day as an unmarried man; well, hopefully. I’ve been asked to be best man twice before, and both of those weddings never happened. Sean is aware of this,but still, The prospect of me being cursed as a best man was not enough to deter Sean from wanting me as best man. Fortunately, Sean had the idea of attempting to dilute the curse by asking fellow Young’un, Michael Hughes, to be best man as well. I suppose this was also a good move in terms of band politics. However, I am not the kind of person to get all high and mighty about this, and I will let Michael harbour the notion that he has been asked on merit, although, deep down he must know the truth.

One of my duties as best man is to make a speech. I haven’t planned or written anything; to be honest, I’m relying on Michael to do that bit, as if you’ve ever seen us perform live, you’ll know that once Michael gets going … I’d like to think that I no Sean pretty well and, given that I spend over half my life with him, I should be able to come up with a couple of stories.

I don’t think Sean will have any problem adapting to marriage. After all, he has managed to spend half of his life in the company of me and Michael. I’m sure marriage will be a picnic in comparison. It’ll be very similar, only he’ll be in the company of someone he actually doesn’t mind having sex with; whereas with me and Michael it takes him at least three pints before he’s interested in us.

If Sean is reading this, fear not, I will not be saying that in my speech It will be a family friendly speech, given that there will be children present. I will therefore be avoiding some of the more salacious stories. I’ll save all that for the book.

The last time I did a speech was last week at the BBC radio 2 Folk Awards. I wonder whether someone will follow the example of the Folk Awards audience, and shout out something Dollop-related for this speech. Maybe someone will shout “pissing dog-lady,” and I can say, “that’s no way to talk about the bride.” Or maybe, just before the wedding cake is served, someone could shout, “I wouldn’t imagine it would taste very nice?” I know that Sean was hoping for a David’s Daily Digital Dollop themed wedding, but his partner wasn’t so keen. I think she was a bit concerned that it would make Michael feel a bit left out. I mean, he’s already having to bravely soldier on with the day knowing that he’s only there out of tokenism and to counter a probably non-existent curse. He could do without having the extra insult of my popularity and genius being rubbed in his face, as people shout out my various hilarious Dollop catchphrases. If there’s anyone reading this though who wants to book a Dollop themed wedding, then get in touch with me, and we’ll discuss the best package based on your budget.

I’m probably going to have to write tomorrow’s Dollop first thing in the morning before setting off for the wedding, as the wedding celebrations will be lasting all day. I’m not saying I want something to go wrong with the wedding, but at least it would mean that I’d have something interesting to write about, and also I’d have the time to write about it, because there wouldn’t be a wedding happening. But I think it would be reckless of me to turn up at the wedding having not done that day’s Dollop, only for the wedding to take place, leaving me with the very tough decision of whether to let the 366 daily blogs challenge fail, or to quickly go home, type up that day’s Dollop, and then leg it back to the wedding again, and hope that no one notices. It’s not like I’ll be missed. I mean there are two best men for goodness sake, so I’m sure Michael can manage on his own for a couple of hours.

So I’ll have to do the Dollop before the wedding, which means that you’ll have to wait until Sunday to find out whether the marriage took place, unless something happens tonight. What suspense.

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Given that all I’ve done today is work on ideas for The Young’uns In The Mix (which you can experience if you buy tickets for Folk East festival in Suffolk – it’s happening Saturday night) I haven’t really done anything that I can write about. So I had a brief look on Twitter for inspiration, and found a BBC news article about “the building site of the future.”

Apparently, building sites of the future will involve robotic builders, usurping the need for human builders. Apparently these robotic builders are very advanced and efficient, and they are entirely fuelled by strong cups of tea, which they must be given every twenty minutes. The robotic builders project is very much in its early faze at the moment, but already huge progress has been made. The robots have been programmed to carry out common basic builders’ tasks. They can wolf-whistle, shout sexist remarks at young women, such as “get your tits out for the lads,” plus they also have a variety of common phrases at their disposal, such as, “it’ll cost ya,” and, “how’s about another cuppa?” They have also been programmed with an impressive, state-of-the-art excuses chip, which boasts thousands of vindications for not turning up, project delays, accidental damage, and sloppy workmanship. Unfortunately, they haven’t yet managed to move the project on to the second faze, which will be to teach the robots how to build. So currently the robot builders are only capable of the wolf whistling, the sexism, drinking tea and coming up with excuses. So basically they’ve already reached the level of some actual human builders. The robots are coming for their jobs, and the word on the street is that the builders are bricking it.

As exciting as the prospect of robot builders might seem, the trouble with replacing every human worker with a machine is that there won’t be any people who can actually afford to live, as everyone is out of work. We will have machines that are capable of building us houses, cooking us food, driving us to and from work, but we won’t have a job for the robot cars to take us to, and we won’t have any money to buy a house for the robots to build us. Of course, the danger is that governments and big corporations will realise that it’s much easier to control robots than it is humans, and so we’ll reach a situation where we are turfed out of our houses, and the robots move in. As robotic technology improves and the robots get more intelligent, their demands and needs are going to expand. Eventually it will be the humans who are the slaves of the robots, expected to carry out the robots’ bidding. We will be forced to spend entire days just repeatedly refuelling robotic builders with strong tea, while they build their palaces of gold. And the robot builders will look down on us, point, laugh, and say, “I told you it would cost you?”

Another thing the article mentions is that houses will be built using a 3D printer. This sounds unbelievably fantastical. Have we even mastered the actual ink/laser printer yet? When I used to do an office job, I had endless problems with the printer. It would sometimes take up whole days just trying to get the bloody thing to work. And now we’re moving onto printing houses? One of the common problems with the printer at work was that someone using the printer before me would have set it to print multiple times, and I, not knowing that someone had been using the computer, would end up accidentally printing off ten copies. Often I would set the printer going and then leave the office to go to the toilet while I waited for it to print, and when I came back there would be loads of paper strewn over the floor, as it duplicated the thing I wanted to print over and over again. Is this going to happen in the 3D printing world as well? Are we going to set our printers going in the morning to print us a house, only to return back from work, ready to move in and find absolute mayhem, as the street is awash with houses which have been built on top of p people’s cars and entirely blocked up the road? Not the best way to ingratiate you with your new neighbours. and

The other article I read was a bout a new museum exhibition about the history of underwear, but to be honest I stopped reading it after the first paragraph because it sounded like a complete load of pants. So, there you go, another classic Dollop. I thank you.

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Thanks to those of you who have tried to counter the unflattering David Eagle related Google searches I’ve recently been getting, such as ‘Is David Eagle autistic?’ by making some more positive searches. Here are some of the Google searches that people have done relating to my name over the last couple of days: “David Eagle The Young’uns fit,’ ‘David Eagle The Young’uns sexy,’ ‘how can I ask David eagle from The Young’uns out?’ Even though these searches have been made as a result of me complaining about the amount of searches I’ve been getting for things like “David Eagle blind,’ and ‘David Eagle disability,’ it still made me feel quite good about myself. After all, there is a tiny chance that someone actually genuinely made these searches on their own volition, having not read my Dollops. Although, for the person who Googled ‘how can I ask David eagle from The Young’uns out?’ I must unfortunately tell you that it’s unlikely that there’ll be any relationship between the two of us.

Firstly, you do not score well on basic intelligence. You seem to be unaware of how Google works. It is a search engine, designed to bring up results based on the keywords you’ve typed. It’s not able to subjectively give you answers to emotive questions, although perhaps it’s only a matter of time before this happens. I suppose that it’s technically possible. Given the amount of data Google probably has about me, it could probably tell you my favourite foods, favourite films and music, which might help you choose a gift for me, in order to soften me up and make me more amenable for your proposition, and also to act as a token of your love for me. Although, given that I’ve written blogs about buying vegetables from Sainsbury’s, Google might incorrectly suggest that a great gift idea for me is a courgette. Sadly, if you came to me declaring your love for me and then handed me a courgette, I would be both confused and disturbed. I’d be wondering what the courgette was all about, and might think you were propositioning me to join you in some kinky vegetable-based exploits, which I think is a bit premature, considering we haven’t even had a first date; I don’t do kinky things with vegetables until the third date – that’s my rule.

If this Google search query was genuine, then I’m afraid they have already turned me off by their lack of basic intelligence, as they obviously don’t understand how Google works, unless they assumed that I am so amazingly popular and fanciable that there is a guide on the Internet about how to ask me out. If this guide does exist, then it begs the question, who the heck has written it? Have my ex-girlfriends all teamed up together, to collectively pool their experiences of dating me, in order to altruistically assist other girls in having the best chance of getting into a relationship with me? Maybe the reason they broke up with me was because they felt selfish to be keeping me for themselves, and so selflessly sacrificed their happiness so that other women could have the chance of experiencing the ineffable joy of a relationship with David Eagle.

Or maybe this is a money-making exercise for my exes, and perhaps they are selling this information to hundreds of girls, all desperate for some tips about how to improve their chances of wooing me. Perhaps the guide book advises them on important information like to wait until the third date before handing me a courgette. I wondered why my relationships never worked out; it’s because my girlfriends were contacted by my exes and seduced to leave me and make their fortune by helping to write a guide to going out with me. It all makes sense now.

All I would say to these unscrupulous women is that you will rue your unconscionable decision. Yes, you may make a small fortune by conning some poor lovestruck women out of their money, but there will come a time when you’ll all look back on what you’ve done and realise that no amount of money is worth the loneliness and emptiness you feel, now that I am no longer in your life.

But, I expect that the truth is simply that these Google searches were not genuine, but were made by Dollop readers/listeners as a joke. But at least I feel a bit more confident in myself now, as there is still a tiny possibility that these were actual genuine search queries, , and it’s only a matter of time before I am contacted by the girl of my dreams. Unfortunately, I’m not sure whether I can afford to allow anyone special into my life at the moment, as they will destract me from this Daily Dollops challenge. I would imagine that sitting in my bedroom by myself writing about trips to the supermarket will suddenly seem pointless and unappealing, if I there is a woman trying to seduce me into enjoying the pleasures of the flesh. So, this is a serious plea to the girl of my dreams: could you please just try and contain yourself until the end of the year, and this challenge has been accomplished? To reward you for your patience, I will accept a courgette on our very first date. I mean, it’s clear that you are the one, so why waste time being all coy about it?,

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Being home after three weeks away on tour is a bit of a culture shock. I’ve got used to having constant stimulus and things being busy and hectic all the time: travelling, performing, doing free community events, while also writing, recording and publishing these Dollops; then socialising after the gigs. For the last three weeks I’ve more or less constantly been around people, with barely any time to myself.

My housemates Ben and Elsa are away, so since getting home yesterday afternoon, the only people I’ve spoken to are the delivery man who brought me my curry last night, and the girl from Sainsburies. I assume you read that properly, and realised by the way I’d punctuated that last sentence, that the delivery man only came to my house to deliver the curry; he didn’t deliver a girl from Sainsbury’s to my door as well. Other than a couple of texts and a few online conversations, that is all the contact I’ve had.

You might be hoping that the girl in Sainsbury’s was our friend from previous Dollops with the scant vegetable knowledge, but alas it wasn’t, although this particular girl didn’t know what Bulgur wheat was, but I don’t feel inspired to write a lengthy blog merely based on that single grain-based ignorance. To be honest, I think I’ve maybe milked all the comic potential from Sainsbury’s shop assistants. After all, I am not the kind of writer who gets stuck in a rut. I must move onto explore new comic pastures. Maybe the shop assistants at Tesco will provide me with some material.

Today I have been sifting through the hours of audio I’ve accumulated so far this year from last month’s tour and our time in Australia in March. There is just under 100 hours of audio on my hard drive to tackle. For the other two Young’uns, they can go home and unwind after a tour, whereas I have to experience the whole thing again, sifting through recordings for the Young’uns Podcast. For the last seven hours, the only voices I’ve heard are mine, Sean’s and Michael’s, with the occasional interjection from an audience member. If you come to any of our gigs this summer, please heckle, just to keep me sane, as it’ll mean I’ll have at least one other voice to listen to other than me Sean and Michael, even if it’s just a fleeting interjection. That one heckle could be what stops me from having a mental breakdown.

The other problem is, given that all I’ve done since getting back is listen to the sound of me and my other two bandmates’ voices, there is nothing really new to write about. I can’t write about the things that happened at the gigs, because I’ve either written about them, or I’m saving them for The Young’uns Podcast.

Despite the fact that I’ve spent the whole day sifting through hours of Young’uns gigs for the next Young’uns Podcast, I think that I might have to put back the release of the next Young’uns Podcast to the end of may, rather than releasing it this week, as planned. This is because I really need to spend the time that I’m at home working on another special project, which I can’t really do when I’m away on tour, whereas I can record and release The Young’uns Podcast from on tour.

The special project I am referring to is The Young’uns In The Mix. Young’uns Podcast listeners may remember The Young’uns In The Mix. In August, at the Folk East festival in Suffolk, I’ll be doing The Young’uns In The Mix live.

Here’s the blurb I wrote yesterday for the Folk east website and Programme.

Prepare to enter a world where folk music and pop music collide. Where Seth Lakeman is collaborating with the Spice Girls, Greg Russell & Ciaran Algar join forces with Daft Punk, The Watersons share the stage with Van-halen, and the Prodigy embrace sea shanties.

David Eagle from The Young’uns takes to the decks to DJ, exclusively for Folk East, as the two disparate worlds of folk and pop join together in unholy musical matrimony. Come and hear folk music like you’ve never heard it before. Come and dance the night away in the company of The Young’uns, armed with disco lights, samplers and DJ decks, and joined by the amazing MC Squared. What do you get when you cross The Unthanks with Queen? All shall be revealed!

I don’t want to worry Becky and John, the organisers of Folk East, who read these Dollops, but I haven’t made a start on this project yet. I’ve written the blurb, and I can hear everything in my head, but I need to use the very short amount of time that I have to get all this prepared. It’s not a case of just turning up with a few records and DJing. I am effectively going to be wrestling with music, trying to force two very different musical styles to work together. Sea shanties for instance don’t conform to a strict key or beat; the key can often drift during the song, and the beat is not strictly constant, as they’re not performed to a metronome and it’s more free-form. I am not a DJ. I’ve never really DJed live. So for all the bravado of the blurb, I have no idea what I’m doing or how the ideas in my head will actually translate into reality, if indeed they even will. So I need to get cracking, and I only have a few weeks, as I’m busy with The Young’uns at the end of May, during June and in Canada and doing festivals for most of July. And then we’re into August, the month of the Folk East festival. I have just a few weeks to learn how to DJ live and also to experiment with the ideas I have in my head.

It could all go horribly wrong. Of course, there is a possibility that it going horribly wrong might actually be really funny, in which case it will still be entertaining, and could therefore be seen as it all going right. If you fancy witnessing this first, and possibly last, Young’uns In The Mix experiment, then get yourself some Folk East festival tickets for the Saturday. I will also release it as a Young’uns Podcast.

Of course, if it’s really going horribly wrong, then I could always get the Yamaha keyboard out, as I’ve already proved myself to be an amazing DJ with the old Yamaha keyboard, ensuring that the party will well and truly be swinging. So, if Becky and John from Folk East are reading this, there is nothing to worry about.

I am not entirely new to mixing disparate styles of music. I’ve done two David Eagle’s Pick and Mix episodes, which mixed things like The Darkness and Basement Jaxx with the grandstand Television theme, and the Chemical Brothers with Flanders and swann. I am happy with the way those two mixes turned out (and I want to get around to doing another one at some point), although they weren’t DJed live in front of an audience. I will also be MCing under the nom de plume, MC Squared.

Get your tickets for Folk East festival, and come and watch the magic, or the tragic, unfold.

David’s Daily Digital Dollop is available as an audio podcast. You can subscribe with Itunes here
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Download audio version

So, I am now over a third of the way through this project. I’ve managed to release a blog everyday for 122 days. The audio blog has flagged a little bit, due to bad WIFI at certain venues, but for the most part it’s kept up with the written version. I’m pleased that the audience for this project has steadily increased over the weeks. The folk award win seems to have bolstered the numbers quite a bit. The audio version is way more popular than the written version. I like to think this is because you all find my voice massively arousing, but it might just be because you’re all just really lazy and can’t be arsed reading. Either way, thanks so much for taking an interest. There are hundreds of you who keep coming back on a daily basis, and the fact that the figures don’t seem to have dropped off but are increasing either means I am doing something right, or that you’re all just really easily pleased; or maybe you just all feel sorry for me and are listening/reading out of sympathy.

Thanks as well to all of you who’ve left comments on these blogs. There are quite a few comments I’ve still got to approve for publishing onto the site, and I’m very behind on replying too, as I’ve been so busy over the last few weeks, but I’ll get around to it over the next few days, as I’m now heading back home after three weeks on the road.

I am a little taken aback to discover that certain people who I’d perhaps rather didn’t read/listen, do READ/LISTEN TO these Dollops. My dad now and again tells me that he’s been keeping up with what I’ve been doing by reading the Dollops. Whenever he mentions this I always immediately try and change the subject, dreading to think what kind of things he might have read, as they could lead to some rather uncomfortable conversations. If dad is reading this and is wondering why I suddenly became interested in talking about the new wallpaper in the living room, then it was simply to avoid us having a conversation that involved us talking about eligible teenage girls who I could impregnate in order to get my home town of Hartlepool back to the top of the teenage pregnancy league. My dad is a very proud Hartlipudlian, so maybe the awkwardness of a father scouting for girls for his son to impregnate might be tempered by his pride for his town.

My housemate Ben’s parents also listen/read these Dollops. In fact, when Ben called home recently, his parents already knew about his new sofa, because of the blog I wrote about it. I don’t mind them reading about sofas and kettles, but I’m a little uncomfortable with the notion that they are reading some of the more profane and salacious content.

After our massively enjoyable homecoming gig in Durham last Saturday, I travelled back with my dad, my dad’s fiancée Irene and my aunty Linda, who is not really my aunty but a surrogate aunty who I’ve known all my life. Linda informed me that she’d started reading my Dollops. There was a bit of a pause while I desperately searched for another conversation topic.

“How’s the wallpaper in the living room?” I asked. But sadly, my wallpaper gambit failed, due to the fact that she hadn’t had the wallpaper changed in the living room for years.

“I read the one about the old people’s home today,” she said.

“What about the carpet?” I was conscious of the fact that the Dollop about the old people’s home consisted of me postulating on the subject of me having sex with women in their nineties. I appreciate if you didn’t read this you might be a little troubled. Out of context this might seem highly disturbing, but be reassured that in context it is only mildly disturbing. But context be damned, I really didn’t fancy discussing the notion of me having sex with women in their nineties with aunty Linda and my dad.

Ideally, there would be a way of having a family friendly version of these Dollops, and a way to direct family, surrogate aunties and friends’ parents to this tamer, sanatised content, therefore avoiding any potential embarrassment when I meet them. So on a day when I might be joking about having sex with women in their nineties or impregnating teenage girls, these family members and friends’ parents will be directed to an alternative Dollop all about how I’ve been doing a spot of gardening over the weekend. Unfortunately, I fear that this would be far too cumbersome and complex to set up, plus it’s also probably a bit too late for that, given some of the things they’ve already read.

At yesterday’s gig in Cumbria I talked about the unflattering David Eagle related Google searches that have been leading people to my website, such as ‘Is David Eagle autistic?’ I was pleased that the audience found it funny, and it was gratifying to note that the jokes from the previous two days’ blogs got good laughs. As much as I enjoy writing these Dollops, I don’t get instant audience feedback from them like I do when performing stuff in front of a live audience, so it’s nice to note that what I’m writing is actually funny.

There’ll be more clips of me talking about this subject at various gigs on The Young’uns podcast at some point soon. A new Young’uns Podcast featuring our Australian adventures will be released this week. In the meantime you can listen to and download all past episodes, plus subscribe for free to receive the podcast automatically through Itunes and other podcast programmes. For all that, go to The Young’uns Podccast page.

And you can also freely subscribe to, listen to and download the audio podcast version of David’s Daily Digital Dollop with Itunes here, or point your favourite podcast subscription service to this RSS feed. Plus you can search for the podcasts on Itunes, the Podcasts app on your Apple devices or any other podcast programme. Or if all this is confusing you, just keep doing what you’re doing, and read/listen that way, and don’t worry your pretty little head about it.

Download audio version here

Yesterday’s David Eagle related Google searches included ‘David Eagle disability’ and ‘David Eagle arm.’ I’m not entirely sure what the latter search query was all about, but it might be related to the fact that apparently I have a tendency to hold my arm out in a slightly idiosyncratic way. I can’t really describe what it is, as I am not conscious of it. The only time it’s ever mentioned to me is by boisterous drunk men, normally in a slightly threatening, accusatory manner, and it normally coincides with them mentioning my lack of eye contact, telling me that I’m not looking at them properly, and then aggressively asking what’s wrong with me. If I explain to them that I’m blind then they are immediately contrite, but it’s interesting how hostile certain people are to me before they realise this, assuming that I’m being deliberately anti-social or insulting to them. Most people are too polite to say anything, and most people certainly wouldn’t call me a freak to my face or act with hostility towards me, just a drunken minority. But, nonetheless, I assume that people do register these differences: the wobbling eyes, the lack of eye contact, the slightly bent hand, which, for the benefit of anyone Googling ‘David Eagle arm,’ is probably a subconscious defence posture, developed over years of having to protect myself from walking into things by putting my hand out, but I don’t know, maybe it’s something else. The wobbling eyes is probably related to my malfunctioning optic nerve, searching for types of visual stimulus that it’s not getting. But this is all just conjecture.

I wasn’t going to publish this until The Young’uns Podcast came out, but in light of the numbers of people searching for ‘David Eagle blind,’ ‘David Eagle disability’ and ‘is David Eagle autistic?’ maybe it would be apposite to publish this now. It’s a story taken from one of our gigs on tour, which addresses the subject of people’s reaction to me and my blindness. It’s been really fun and also therapeutic telling this story. I am not at all confident about myself in a visual, physical sense, nor do I have any reason to be, given that I can’t see myself and that I have no real way of assimilating normal, sighted physical behaviour, such as eye contact. Fortunately I have the ability to talk about it publicly and in a hopefully humorous way, meaning that I have a cathartic release valve that doesn’t involve getting too depressed or feeling isolated about it.

Bloody hell, I feel as if this Dollop has maybe been a little more introspective and revealing than I perhaps would have wanted, but hopefully it’s been an interesting read, and hopefully the following audio clip will be entertaining and lift the mood a bit.

Download the story here

Back tomorrow.

Download audio version here

In Dollop 25 I wrote about how one of the most searched for terms that brings people to my website is, ‘David Eagle blind,’ or ‘The Young’uns blind.’ When we were gigging in Australia, this search query made a massive resurgence, as people were seeing us for the first time and presumably were curious to know. It then died out a bit after our Australian tour, but then picked back up as we started our UK tour. But then, after the Folk Awards this week, the amount of people searching for ‘David Eagle blind,’ and ‘The Young’uns blind’ has reached a new high.

Today, my website stats showed me a new search query which I’d never seen before. Someone had typed into Google, ‘is David Eagle autistic?’ The person who typed this was directed to my website, which they clicked on. I have not mentioned being autistic on my website, but then again, I haven’t said I’m not, so I wonder if they’ve maybe read some of these Dollops and tried to solve the mystery for themselves, in which case, I wonder what conclusion they reached. If you are reading this Dollop, my friend, I can reveal to you now that … I am … not autistic.

I wonder whether you’ll stay and read the rest of this Dollop or whether, now that your curiosity has been satisfied, you will click off this page, never to return again. Maybe this is what this person does for a hobby: thinks of a name and then asks Google whether they are autistic. Maybe they are collecting a list of autistic people, and mine is just one on a long list of names that they’ve asked Google whether they are autistic. So maybe I shouldn’t feel so self-conscious about this. But, being tagged by one disability that I actually have is one thing, but being identified with a disability that I don’t have is something else altogether. I wonder when and where they saw me, and what it was about me and what I was doing that prompted their question. If you are still reading this then perhaps you can let me know.

At the moment, I am only aware of which searches people have done when it elicits a click onto my website. I haven’t checked Google’s stats, which would also show me all the searches relating to my name that didn’t result in people clicking on my website. If I checked Google’s stats services then I might discover that there are hundreds of people asking whether I am autistic, and who knows what other questions: ‘Is David Eagle really a man?’ ‘Is David Eagle suffering from Halitosis?’ ‘Is David Eagle brain damaged?’ I dare not look, in fear of the array of confidence crushing questions I might find.

Why has no one searched for: ‘Is David Eagle single? I mean, I know he probably isn’t because he’s massively attractive, and anyway, even if he was he probably wouldn’t be interested in me because he’s way out of my league, but a girl can dream?’ ‘Is David Eagle a member of Mensa? He seems so clever, and funny.’ ‘Is David Eagle doing any solo gigging? He’s so talented, and I’d like to see more of him, without the other two dragging him down.’ But no, nothing like that.

There is a story I’ve been telling on this tour which ties into this subject. I won’t tell it here, as it will be on a Young’uns Podcast at some point soon. We’ll be releasing a podcast at the start of May, detailing our Australian exploits.

In the meantime, you can catch up with all of the past Young’uns Podcasts here. Although, why am I even bothering to tell you. Most of you are probably only here because of some unflattering question about me that you put into Google, and are not interested in any actual content, unless it relates to your question asking whether I have a certain disability or disease. If anyone has any questions about me, then feel free to leave a comment on this blog. Maybe if I get enough, or if I pluck up the courage to check Google’s stats for other David Eagle related search queries, I will put up a Frequently Asked Questions page.

Download audio version here

We’ve just done one of our free community events, performing at an old people’s home in Liverpool. It was a lovely gig and everyone seemed to really enjoy it. But then at the end, chaos occurred.

As we bid everyone goodbye and made to leave, we heard a kerfuffle from behind us, and a cry of “wait” from one of the ladies. Looking round, we saw that some of the residents had started getting money out of their purses. We tried to stop them, but they were resolutely thrusting it into our hands. It was impossible to stop them and hand their money back, as more and more hands kept going, until everyone started joining in. As the enthusiasm for this exercise increased among the residents, the amounts of money that were being presented to us were getting larger and larger, with some people handing over notes. If we’d have accepted all the money that was being thrust at us then we’d probably have come away from this short afternoon performance in an old people’s home with more money than we’d made on any of our actual gigs. We kept trying to hand people their money back, but it was becoming increasingly difficult as more and more people pushed their hands at us and dropped their offering on the table. The table was now covered with coins and notes. Plus, we had no idea who had given what. If we tried asking people what they’d given, so that we could give it back, they either refused to tell us or said they couldn’t remember, which may have been true – after all they are ninety and their memories are probably not brilliant – or just an excuse to stop us returning the money to them.

The staff attempted to step in and reissue the money to people, but they had no idea who’d given what. The place was in chaos. Some people had gone to their rooms, realising that they hadn’t got any money, and were now coming back to give us money, not realising that we’d actively been avoiding taking it for the last five minutes. Some people were pursuing us out of the place, still trying to give us money.

The staff are clearly not going to be able to give the right amount of money to the people who gave it, and so maybe we should have accepted. But it seemed wrong to offer a gig for free and then end up coming away with hundreds of pounds. But is it patronising of us to refuse their money just because they are in their nineties? We refused the money as soon as it was offered. Had we accepted, would staff have stepped into intervene? Regardless, it just seemed inappropriate for us to accept.

But maybe we are going about our performance career in the wrong way here. Maybe we should be using the money from benevolent old people to subsidise our gigs for everyone else. The beauty of this scheme is that the old people don’t have to travel anywhere, because they live in the venue we’d be performing in, as it’s sheltered accommodation. Therefore, with the money they’re saving on travel, they can afford to pay a healthy amount to us. Also, the fact that these people are reaching the end of their lives means that they’ll be able to afford to be extra benevolent.

The three of us wouldn’t need to bother paying for a hotel, because we’d be able to stay in the residential home, either sharing a bed with a benevolent old lady, or taking advantage of any beds that have recently become free due to a resident dying. The bonus of this scheme is that there’ll be some lucky ladies in their nineties who get to have a night of passion with a man in his thirties, which we’d be offering as a free extra. Or maybe we should be charging. After all, I doubt that any of these ladies in their nineties would have ever thought they’d get the chance to spend another night with anyone ever again, never mind someone so young and attractive. I mean, obviously there’s a chance that they might be lumped with Michael or Sean, but at least they’d still be getting someone young. Then, with all this money we’re making and saving from gigging to and sleeping with old people, we’ll be able to lower the fees on our main gigs. I cannot see a problem with this scenario, and I intend to forward this Dollop onto our agent immediately.

I think it’s very doubtful that the staff at today’s home are going to be able to give the right amount of money back to the right people. Perhaps the residents will just decide to split the money between them equally. They may even elect to put all their money on the table and split all of it equally between them, and start a new utopian life where everyone is equal. This idea might then spread into other old people’s homes, and this might eventually filter down to the rest of society. Sadly, this would eventually invariably lead to people being put to death, as yet another communist attempt fails to effectively get off the ground. We thought it would be nice to do some free gigs for people in the community, but we may have ended up accidentally launching a bloody communist revolution, resulting in the possible death of millions. Lesson well and truly learnt. We’ll be sure to only do gigs for lots of money in the future, and hope that the people in the residential home in Liverpool either die or have a collective memory laps before they can set their communist plans to action.

Sorry if you were hoping for some showbiz stories from the folk awards and conversations with celebrities, but I find all of that massively daunting and intimidating. I am much more secure and content being in my own little bubble, writing blogs about having sex with ninety-year-old women. But come on, let’s be honest, you would clearly rather read about fictional communist revolutions brought about by ninety-year-olds in a residential home than listen to me having a conversation with Martin Freeman, wouldn’t you? What? Really? Oh, well, sorry.

The title of this Dollop, Money From Old Folk, is meant to be a sort of pun on Money For Old Rope, but I’m not sure if it works and was maybe a bit too subtle. That’s the trouble with me: I am just too subtle. I’m sick of people constantly telling me that, time and time again. “Oh you’re so subtle David,” they say. I would tell them to fuck off, but I’m far too subtle to do that.