Comedian and Folk Singer. Winner Edinburgh’s Spirit of the Fringe 2024, Best Variety Show Leicester Comedy Festival 2024, Nominee Best Show Edinburgh Fringe 2024. As heard on BBC Radio 4’s “The Now Show” and seen on “Rosie Jones’s Disability Comedy Extravaganza”. From three-time BBC Radio 2 Folk Award winning band The Young'uns.
I’ve come back home to Hartlepool for a couple of days to see the family. Yesterday’s Dollop was released at 1135pm, with only 25 minutes to spare. The reason for this was because I spent most of the day playing with children. I am aware of the many comic avenues I could potentially take with that last sentence, but predictable punchlines don’t fall under the remit of David’s Daily Digital Dollop, which is all about breaking new ground and exploring new comic frontiers. So, when I say I was playing with children for most of the day, I am referring to children who form a part of my family, and there was nothing sinister going on, and I’m not even going to pretend that there was for comic effect. OK, I think we’ve dealt with that now. Don’t worry, I don’t intend to analyse every sentence in this much detail.
If you are listening to the audio version of this Dollop then you’ll have just heard my eleven-year-old niece Lucy, who appeared in the first few audio episodes of David’s Daily Digital Dollop. We did another batch of Dollop jingles yesterday, which I’ll be starting the Dollops with over the week. We agreed to reconvene and do some more jingles in 100 days time, although there is of course the possibility that in 100 days time she will feel that such exploits are the height of immaturity, far too childish and way beneath her, which will be sad and disconcerting for two reasons. firstly, it’s scary for me to consider how I have known Lucy since she was mere days old and seeing someone grow up at what seems to me to be a terrifyingly quick pace is a stark reminder of the rapid passage of time. When Lucy was born I was still at university. it will also be yet another reminder of my refusal to grow up and take life seriously. I don’t necessarily crave marriage and children, but there is a strong possibility that she will have kids and be married before me, which I think would force me into a situation where I’d have to start taking a look at my life. She is eleven now. She could have a child in just five or six years, in fact, she’s living in Hartlepool, teenage pregnancy capital of Britain, so let’s knock that down to three years.
I think going home always resurfaces these kinds of thoughts about the passage of time. It doesn’t help when my dad and his fiancée Irene seem to enjoy talking about death so much. One of the first things they told me upon me entering the house was that they were both sorting out their wills. Then the next conversation that followed this between me and my dad was a familiar one, because we have this same kind of conversation quite regularly.
It will start by dad saying something like, “I was in church last Sunday and I heard about Mrs Jenkins. Remember Mrs Jenkins?”
“no, I don’t think so.”
“You do. She went to our church.”
I haven’t been to church for ages, since my early teens.. My dad will persist though, despite me telling him that I’ve no idea who she is.
“She used to give you sweets after mass.”
“No, I don’t remember.”
“She used to nurse you on her knee if you started crying in church, and you used to immediately calm down.”
“no. I think it’s highly unlikely I’m going to remember that, because I was a baby, unless you’re about to attempt an obvious punchline about it only being five years ago when I was crying in church, in which case, be warned that I’m definitely not going to include it in thhis Dollop when I later mention this conversation, because as I said earlier, or at least I will have said earlier once I write the thing, this Dollop is about breaking new ground ad crossing new comic fronteers.”
“She was one of the helpers at Sunday school, who used to read the stories to you, because obviously you couldn’t see them to read.”
The conversation continues, and I gradually start to get a vague memory of Mrs Jenkins. My dad continues.
“She used to make the cakes for the church fate, and they were always your favourite, and you insisted on going to visit her stall first, remember?”
“Oh yes, you know, actually, I am starting to remember.”
“She knew you enjoyed music so she gave you a little toy keyboard to play with and said you could take it home. Your very first keyboard, remember?”
“Oh my god, of course, Mrs Jenkins. Lovely old Mrs Jenkins. Oh, she was great. I can’t believe I’d forgotten about her. Oh, how is she? I should visit her and thank her for everything. She was lovely. Mrs Jenkins, how could I forget. Oh, so, how is she?”
“She’s dead. She died last week. That’s why I’m mentioning her.”
Brilliant, I’ve just become reacquainted with a long lost friend who I am suddenly filled with so much love and appreciation for, only to immediately have her cruelly taken from me for ever.
And that’ll have to do for this Dollop, because it’s 1120, and I still need to record the audio version and upload it.
Yesterday, I saw the following news headline: “Corbyn Loses It With Female LBC Journalist.” LBC is a radio station in London, and according to this headline, Jeremy Corbyn lost it with one of their journalists. If you were merely taking a cursory look at the news, perhaps just skim reading through the headlines, then you might be forgiven for imagining some sort of bust-up, raised voices, possibly some swearing and some invective. After all, Corbyn apparently “loses it.”
So yesterday morning, a journalist waited outside Jeremy Corbyn’s front door in order to get some comments from him about the whole Cameron panama tax debacle. Corbyn has been clear from the start about not wanting to do interviews on his doorstep. Some people, including lots of wining journalists, claim that being doorstepped is part of the territory, and that if he doesn’t like it then he shouldn’t be a politician and leader of the opposition. But who decided this? Do you honestly think that when thousands of people signed up as labour members in order to vote Jeremy Corbyn in as labour leader, they were doing so because they were looking forward to watching what he had to say on his doorstep to a ragtag band of mediocre journalists, first thing in the morning, only half an hour after waking up? I don’t think anyone voted Corbyn in for that reason. I don’t recall doorsteps ever being mentioned by Corbyn or any of his supporters. So when these journalists declare that it’s part of the territory, they are simply throwing their toys out of the pram because Corbyn is not willing to play ball.
I think it’s fair to say that giving interviews is part of the territory for a politician, but I’m not at all convinced of the efficacy of conducting an interview with someone who’s still bleary-eyed and sleepy, having only just got out of bed half an hour ago. Although in Corbyn’s case he’s probably been up and about a bit longer than that, because obviously before he leaves the house he has to go through an arduous rigmarole of choosing his clothes for the day, being the fashion icon that he is (hahahah! Satire).
Surely it’s best to wait until he’s had a few minutes to digest the news, take stock of what’s going on, maybe have a cup of coffee and then consider his position and what he’d like to say before he says it? Then we’d actually get to hear a considered and well thought out approach to what’s going on, rather than a first-thing-in-the-morning, impulsive comment. Who’s that really benefiting? The answer is obvious: the journalists. That’s it.
It’s not as if Jeremy has refused to talk about David Cameron’s offshore affairs; he has released statements about it on labour’s website, mentioned it on Twitter, and spoken to journalists on his own volition in a more conducive environment for an interview, so it’s not as if we’re deprived of Corbyn’s thoughts about this.
“It took five weasel-worded statements in five days for the Prime Minister to admit that he has personally profited from an undeclared Caribbean tax haven investment deal. His determination to conceal that arrangement over many years raises serious questions over public trust in his office and his willingness to be straight with the public. Tolerance of tax avoidance and tax havens, and inaction on tax evasion, is denying funds to the public purse and leads directly to cuts in services and benefits that are hurting millions of people in Britain. The Prime Minister has lost the trust of the British people. He must now give a full account of all his private financial dealings and make a statement to Parliament next week. Only complete openness from the Prime Minister, and decisive action against tax avoidance and evasion, can now deal with the issues at the heart of this scandal.”
That’s what Jeremy Corbyn had to say mere hours after the LBC journalist doorstepped him, which I think is a pretty comprehensive and well-considered statement, much better than I’d imagine he’d have managed to come up with first thing in the morning, half an hour after waking up, upon leaving the house to be confronted by a woman baring a microphone and a camera.
If Jeremy Corbyn agreed to make a statement outside his house then it would be setting a precedent, giving journalists the notion that doorstepping him might yield positive results, and therefore more of them would camp outside his house, waiting for him to leave. So I think it’s perfectly logical and well within his rights to deny having interviews thrust upon him whenever a journalist fancies it.
Who decided that politicians are fair gain for this kind of harassment? Journalists are condemning Corbyn as if he’s breaking some kind of rule by his refusal to do unscheduled interviews with journalists outside his front door, but there isn’t actually any such rule. Maybe it’s time for the politicians to retaliate, and camp outside these wining journalists’ houses and harass them first thing in the morning, asking them to give them some sensationalist headlines on the spot, or to take some quotes out of context, without being given any prior warning. Any journalist who refuses to comply will be named and shamed at Prime Minister’s Questions.
So I clicked on the video and braced myself. I was expecting to hear Corbyn hurling abuse at the journalist, perhaps even physically assaulting her. After all, the headline said that “Corbyn loses it with female journalist.” I also read another headline on another website which said, “Jeremy Corbyn criticised over doorstep spat with LBC,” so I was expecting quite a bit of hostility to be coming from Corbyn, giving the terms “loses it” and “spat.” I also read various people’s comments. One of the commenters saw the clip and commented: “He’s a deeply unpleasant cunt with a serious anger management problem. Typical of thin men with goatee beards.” The commenter’s sensationalist, over-the-top, outlandish generalising betrays the fact that they are probably a wining journalist who believes that harassing people outside their front doors is their right and perfectly acceptable. It also seems a bit rich for this person to suggest that Corbyn has anger management issues, given that they call him a “cunt” and seems rather pissed off by all thin people with goatees.
So I pressed play on the video and prepared myself for the verbal, and maybe even physical onslaught.
As soon as Corbyn leaves his house the journalist is upon him. “Mr Corbyn, what is your reaction to …” she begins.
“Good morning everybody,” says Corbyn to the people outside his house. If you’ve not seen or heard this clip then you might be thinking, “good morning everybody? That doesn’t sound like he’s losing it. Presumably he must have said “good morning everybody” really aggressively, perhaps spitting the words out directly into the journalist’s face.” But no, I think it’s safe to say that his “good morning everybody” sounds perfectly pleasant, given the fact that he’s just opened his door and is being confronted by some annoying journalist.
The journalist says “good morning” back, and then continues to ask her question. Corbyn interupts the journalist, saying, “Thank you very much for coming here, but I don’t do interviews under any circumstances. Put it away please,” referring to the camera. The clip then ends.
I was stunned. This was apparently a clip of Corbyn losing it with a female journalist, but the whole thing seemed perfectly tame to me. There were 22 words spoken by Corbyn, which included, “good morning,” “Thank you very much” and “please,” words which I wouldn’t say are the hallmarks of someone losing it.
But the commenter who saw this clip said that “He’s a deeply unpleasant cunt with a serious anger management problem.” I must be missing something. Being blind, I couldn’t see the visual aspect of the video. Even though the audio sounds perfectly tame and polite, Corbyn must do something visually to justify the statement “loses it.” Maybe while he’s saying “good morning everybody, thank you very much for coming,” Corbyn is actually pushing the woman to the ground and starts punching her in the face. Yes, that must be it, hence the statement, “Corbyn loses it with female journalist.”
I played the video to my dad. I warned him in advance that there might be scenes containing violence, thinking that it would be best to prepare him for Corbyn’s savage physical assault on this poor “female journalist.” But when he watched it he merely informed me that Corbyn looks perfectly at ease and the only physical contact with the female journalist is to push her camera away from him as he says “put it away please.” That was it.
So let’s have a look at this headline once again and let’s see how accurate it really is. After all, it’s important that we scrutinise the work of journalists intensely, given that they passionately believe in getting to the truth and scrutinising politicians so intensely. It seems only fair to hold these journalists to the same standards that they expect of our politicians, does it not?
“Corbyn loses it with female LBC journalist.” The Corbyn bit is accurate; I’ll give them that, welll done. But I think it’s more than a little hyperbolic to suggest that he “looses it.” “Female LBC journalist” is also accurate; well done. But I’m interested in the inclusion of the fact that she’s female. The headline writer must have deemed the journalist’s gender a salient fact, after all, it’s a short headline, so only the key words are needed. It strikes me therefore that the word “female” has been used deliberately, but why? Is it to give people the impression that Corbyn has acted aggressively towards a vulnerable woman? Surely that is the only reason to use the word “female?” Surely if it was a male journalist, the word “male” would never be used in the headline. This headline actually says next to nothing about Corbyn but reveals so much about the journalists we’re dealing with here. Even though the video clip demonstrates nothing that is suggested by the sensationalist headline, they nevertheless choose to use those exact words in order to give people a certain impression and spin a story. They are lying, yet they are the very people who claim to be the ones who have a mission to uncover the truth and unearth lies and corruption. This is such a two-faced attitude, proving that these journalists are acting purely in self-interest rather than for any good.
Back tomorrow with the 101st Dollop. If there are any journalists thinking of trying to get tomorrow’s Dollop from me before I get around to writing it, by doorstepping me first thing in the morning and asking me to come up with that day’s Dollop there and then, don’t waste your time because I will politely decline your interview by thanking you for coming, and saying good morning to you whilst punching you repeatedly in the face, regardless of your gender.
Today’s Dollop is an audio Dollop, because I found it difficult to communicate this topic successfully in writing. I have therefore just decided to speak from the hart. The last 98 Dollops have been quite light and hopefully funny, but today I feel compelled to talk about something serious that’s really playing on my mind. It’s a difficult subject to talk about, but I hope that by doing so I will unburden myself and maybe even help others. I won’t write any more here. If you’re up for it, then feel free to listen to the below audio, otherwise come back tomorrow when the topic won’t be so emotional and serious.
After our love chair adventure (see yesterday’s Dollop if you’re confused) me, Sean and Ben went to a music shop to buy a new keyboard for The Young’uns tour, which starts next week, although you’ll all know that, because you’ve already got your tickets for one of the gigs, obviously. If you have enjoyed these free Dollops, then you can show your appreciation by coming to one of the gigs, otherwise I might be forced to sell my computer to make ends meet, and there’ll be no more Dollops. I know that some of you might be a bit put off by the fact that there’ll be two other people sharing the stage with me, and that you’d rather it just be me for ninety minutes talking about kettles and going to the shops, but think of you coming to this gig as an investment in the possibility of one day making that a reality, because if I have enough money then I’ll be able to concentrate on putting together such a solo show in the future. It is important to support The Young’uns in order to support my future solo career, so please buy a ticket and try and tolerate the other two, if only to help make my ninety minute stand-up show about my kettle a reality. But if you really can’t bare listening to Sean talking and singing about his dead grandmother, then you don’t have to come to the gig, just buy a ticket and stay at home and wait for the Young’uns Podcast to be released, where I will have diligently edited the other two’s nonsense out, as I know that this is what people really want.
We wanted to sell our old keyboard and buy a new one, and we hoped that we could do both at our local music shop. We did some internet research before setting off to find out how much the old keyboard was selling for, and also to ascertain the price of the new keyboard. Upon entering the music shop, we noticed that the price of the keyboard was quite a lot higher than it was at other stores. However, we ideally wanted to sort out the purchase there and then and part-exchange it for the old keyboard, rather than having to faff around with Ebay, which would involve having to wait for buyers and bids, and then sorting out postage and packaging. But the price was ridiculously high. I anticipated getting about £200 for the old keyboard, and even knocking £200 off the price for the new keyboard would still only mean that we’d paid the full price for it, given that the keyboard was priced £200 higher in this shop.
If I was by myself, I might have given up and walked out of the shop,. Perhaps I might make some very diffident enquiry about whether we could maybe get the price of the keyboard down a bit, but I don’t think I’d possess the requisite confidence or staying power to properly haggle. I turned to the other two to suggest that we left the shop, but Ben had already started purposefully marching towards the counter.
By the time I’d joined him at the counter, mere seconds later, he had already talked the man into knocking £100 off the price. But he wasn’t finished yet. Ben proceeded to execute some highly impressive heckling tactics. It was me who was buying the keyboard, but it was very much Ben who was in control of the situation. After a further couple of minutes of impressive haggling, Ben got the price down by another £100. He had now got the price down to match the price set by the other stores which we’d researched online. Ben had also managed to get them to take the keyboard for £250, which was better than I’d anticipated, given that it was an old model. Brilliant, I thought, and reached into my bag for my card. But then I felt Ben tug my arm.
“Come on lads, we’re walking,” he said, and proceeded to march in the direction of the door. Sean and I followed, even though I was happy to accept the price they were offering. It would be more of a hassle to sell the old keyboard on Ebay, and at least this way we’d take care of both buying and selling, and end up in profit. But Ben had said “we’re walking,” with the kind of authority that I’d not heard from him before.
But, Ben’s ploy completely worked, for just as we were reaching the door the called us back, and knocked another £50 off the keyboard.
“Now you’re talking my language,” Ben said, again with the kind of confident swagger in his voice that I’d never heard from him before. I once again reached into my bag to retreave my card to pay, but it transpired that when Ben had said, “now you’re talking my language,” that hadn’t meant that the haggling had finished.
It went on for another ten minutes. At first Sean and I felt a bit awkward and embarrassed, but as time went on I began to really start enjoying it. It was clear that both Ben and the man were rather enjoying the haggling, and I began to start appreciating it as a sport. We were watching two heavy-weight hagglers at their very best. I’m pretty sure that the haggle became so compelling that other people in the shop turned to spectate. Ben and the man kept doing things like, stepping towards and away from each other, moving closer if they felt as if a deal was maybe being reached, but then one of them would turn away and take a couple of steps back, until the other one backed down and presented a new offer. They were clearly both enjoying themselves, because they were properly bantering away with each other as they haggled. This sport had everything: drama, physical and verbal theatre .
For the last five minutes of the haggle, they were essentially quibbling over £5. Ben had managed to knock a further £70 off the price, but was still endeavouring to talk the man down by another £5, but the man was having none of it. Neither of them were budging. Eventually the man agreed to knock an extra pound off, but stated in a very self-assured voice that this was definitely his final offer. Ben accepted, they shook hands, and I was finally allowed to get my card out and pay, shaking slightly with the adrenalin and excitement of it all.
As I paid, Ben and the man continued to banter with each other. Whenever Sean or I tried interacting with the man, it was clear that he didn’t hold the same respect for us, viewing us merely as ordinary, common garden shoppers, whereas he clearly had proper respect for Ben, seemingly impressed by his haggling abilities.
Ben is a music technology teacher and buys a lot of instruments for the college, and so has cottoned onto the fact that people in music shops are used to haggling over the price of equipment, something which I’d never really considered before. I was massively impressed with this other side to Ben that I’d not seen before, and when we got home I snuggled him extra hard in the love chair to show my gratitude, which, let’s face it, is probably the reason why he’d haggled so well on my behalf.
As much as I enjoyed the haggling experience, I hope that Ben doesn’t let this success go to his head and start haggling in other places. We are going out to a restaurant and some pubs tonight, and as fun as the haggling was, it does take up quite a bit of time, and does make you a lot more conspicuous, and I am already conspicuous enough being in The Young’uns and being the creator of David’s Daily Digital Dollop, which obviously garners me a lot of attention from adoring fans.
Yesterday, Facebook rolled out a new feature which describes Facebook photos to blind people. While this could be seen as a great step forward for accessibility and equality, in practical terms, all it means is that now blind people will have to endure hearing about superfluous, pointless crap such as, “photo of average looking lasagne; photo of fairly generic looking spaghetti bolognaise.” In the past our screen readers would have simply ignored the photo, but not any more. So I’m all for technology making the world more accessible and equal, but at the same time I am a not too happy about being dragged into this whole new world of tedium. There are few advantages to being blind, but being able to skip pointless pictures of people’s meals was certainly one of the rare bonuses, and now Facebook have taken that one consolation away from us, the evil bastards.
Today is a very special day for my housemates Ben and Elsa, as they are taking their relationship to the next level. They have bought something called a Love Chair, also known as a Snuggle Chair. They are both playing this purchase down, claiming that it’s merely a compact, practical chair, but I think that this is clearly a major step in their partnership. They have reached the snuggling stage of their relationship. Who knows, give it a year and they might be sleeping in the same bed. But for now, I don’t think they’re ready for that quite yet, and so naturally, Elsa will be continuing to share my bed with me until she is ready. It’s important for them not to rush these things, as I am at pains to remind them. But I am really happy for them both that they have reached the snuggling stage, and that they have expressed their love for each other through the medium of chair-purchase.
Elsa has been at work all day, so Me, Ben and Sean went in The Young’uns van to pick up the chair, which was at someone’s house, as Ben had found a good second hand deal on Gumtree. The three of us went into the house. We each had a sit in the snuggle chair, and it was very comfortable. But the husband and wife who had owned the chair insisted that two people needed to try it. “It’s a snuggle chair,” she implored, “designed for two people to sit together, and it’s much more comfortable when two people are sat on it, as opposed to just one person.”
Ben and I both sat on the chair together. It’s essentially a chair designed for couples, and it’s quite intimate as there’s not much space. The cushions also sink down quite low, and the way it sinks causes the two people to recline together.
“You both look very homely on there,” the lady said, sounding pleased. I think Sean and I had both started to realise that the husband and wife had obviously assumed that Ben and I were gay, in the way that they were looking at us and interacting with us. I don’t know why it even mattered what the old couple thought about us, but for some reason I started to try and explaine to them that I wasn’t Ben’s partner, I just happened to live there.
“Oh no, I’m not Ben’s partner,” I said, as I got out of the seat.
Ben still hadn’t cottoned onto the couple’s assumption, as he was too busy assessing the chair, checking that it didn’t have any blemishes. Ben turned to Sean, patted the seat and invited him to sit next to him. This made the couple assume that if I wasn’t Ben’s partner, then Sean must be.
“Ah, yes, you both look very homely on there,” the wife said, sounding even more pleased, as if trying to overcompensate for her previous mistake. Last time she’d said that Ben and I looked “homely,” before discovering that we weren’t actually partners, so this time she presumably said “very homely” and delivered it with extra relish so as to placate Sean, in case he felt jealous by the couple’s previous assumption.
Sean, like me, for some reason felt the need to correct the woman’s assumption about us being gay and in a relationship with Ben, and so he also pointed out to the woman that they were not a couple. He explained that me and Ben lived together and that he was just a friend. Ben, for some reason decided to add some extra information to that statement, mentioning that although technically me and Ben lived together, me and Sean probably spent more time away with each other than I spent at home with him. This was simply meant to be a casual throw-away statement about me and Sean being away gigging, but without the inclusion of the gigging element, it merely seemed to make the couple more confused, as they tried to work out just who was with whom.
“We’re away playing together quite a lot,” I began, about to add the fact that we were in a folk group, but seemingly the pause between that next fact was too long for Sean, and so he hastily interjected, “in a band, he means. We’re in a band together.”
“A folk band,” I added. In hindsight, I think it’s safe to say that the line, “we’re away playing together quite a lot,” although intended as a harmless statement, did seem a little suggestive, given the thoughts that appeared to be running through this confused couple’s heads. Sean had instantly realised this, which was why he’d interrupted so quickly to point out that when I said “we’re away playing together quite a lot,”I was referring to playing in a band. Sean’s hurried comment about being in a band made me realise how my original statement must have come across. Therefore, in order to make up for my previous accidental euphemistic line, I decided to furnish them with more information to help give more credibility to our explanation. So I added, “a folk band. It’s a folk band.” But I think this probably sounded to the couple like I’d added this extra bit of information because I’d realised that our cover-story wasn’t sounding particularly convincing.
There was a bit of a pause. The wife cleared her throat, and the husband asked, “so … er … what instruments do you play?” The wife cleared her throat again, maybe because she was picking up an awkward atmosphere, and wished her husband hadn’t asked this question, as now we’d have to manufacture more lies and develop this already fragile cover-story.
Sean and I both spoke at the same time. I said, “I play accordion,” and Sean said, “it’s unaccompanied singing.” We were both correct, as we do a mix of unaccompanied songs and also play with instruments, but to someone who didn’t know our band it sounded like two completely contradictory statements, as if we were both just continuing to badly busk our cover story, trying to hide the fact that we were in a gay three-way relationship with Ben.
There was another pause, and the wife cleared her throat again. Sean and I realised how ridiculous this whole thing was becoming and started to laugh. Ben had begun to register what was occurring and he also started to laugh. This only made the three of us more embarrassed, and no doubt look even more like we were in a gay three-way relationship which we were completely failing to cover up.
When we’d stopped laughing, we all decided to just give up our attempts to explain that we weren’t in a gay three-way relationship, as it was clearly a lost cause. Ben hurriedly handed over the money and we took the chair out to our van, helped by the husband. As I’ve mentioned before, The Young’uns van is meant to be a three seater vehicle, but in reality it’s more of a two and a half seater, as the three of us have to squash in very tightly together. I don’t think seeing me, Ben and Sean squashed up very close together in a tiny van did anything to disavow the couple of the notion that we were in a gay three-way relationship. They probably assumed that we’d bought the van deliberately because of its intimate size, which is why we’d also bought an intimate snuggle chair. They probably assume that the three of us drove home in our intimate van, got the chair in and spent the rest of the day snuggling together. Which is of course not what happened at all; we only spent half the day snuggling, because Sean had to go home to his “fiancée” to sort out things for their forthcoming wedding, which let’s face it, is clearly a smokescreen to distract people from Sean’s real relationship with me and Ben. Oh what the hell, there’s no point denying it. And before you ask, no, there is absolutely nothing going on between any of us and Michael; we’ve not stooped that low.
I went to asda today. That’s right, not Sainsbury’s. You can’t pin me down. I thought I’d mix things up a bit for the blog. Some bloggers get stuck in their ways and end up standing still, writing about the same supermarket over and over again, but not me, I’m keeping it moving, keeping it fresh. Sorry Michael Wackington that it wasn’t the co-op, but Ben wanted to buy some clothes, and some drain unblocker, as well as food, and so the co-op just wasn’t going to cut it on this occasion. But there’s still another 270 Dollops to go, so there’s plenty of time to write about a visit to the co-op.
As we wondered through the shop, we were treated to the sounds of Asda FM Live. The Voice Over kept proudly declaring that the station was Asda FM live, even though it sounded like it was just an automated station comprising pop music, and a few adverts for Asda products. There was nothing to suggest that the station was broadcasting live. There wasn’t a presenter, there weren’t any listener calls, texts or tweets. No travel bulletins: “and thanks to Jenny, currently shopping at the Asda superstore in Luton, who called to let us know of a hold up at the drinks isle, apparently due to a spilled crate of beer, caused by an accidental collision with a trolley being pushed by a harassed and flummoxed parent. Staff are currently cleaning up the spillage, and the drinks isle should be free-moving once again very soon. We will of course bring you more news on that as we get it.” No weather reports: “Asda stores’ average temperature is 21 degrees Celsius, that’s 70 degrees Fahrenheit. Although, things get a little bit cooler as we head towards the frozen foods section, with an ambient temperature of about 7 degrees Celsius, that’s 45 degrees Fahrenheit. Highs of 23 degrees Celsius, 73 degrees Fahrenheit, that’s in our bakery isles.”
But alas, none of that, sadly. It was clearly just an automated station, yet the Voice Over kept saying “Asda FM Live.” But what did they mean by live? Surely they didn’t employ someone merely to sit there and occasionally press a few buttons, given that an automated play-out system could replicate that just as easily; in fact, it sounded exactly like an automated system, making that person’s job completely redundant. Even if it was an automated system, they could have still recorded a presenter doing some links that could then be interspersed throughout the music, which would have made it sound a bit more live. But they didn’t even do that. So I really think it’s stretching the point to call the radio station Asda FM live. In fact, even the FM part of the station name is a lie, because they’re not broadcasting on FM. Basically, the whole Asda FM live thing is a complete sham, and it’s about time someone was brave enough to say it. At least the co-op’s radio station actually have real presenters, isn’t that right Michael?
The Voice Over and jingles would frequently inform us that Asda FM is available “online and in-store.” I was quite surprised to hear that Asda FM is available online, given that it is just a selection of fairly generic pop music that can be found on every pop commercial radio station in the western world, interspersed with Asda related adverts. Why would anyone choose to listen to Asda FM online? Who are the people who choose Asda FM as their favourite radio station to listen to at home? Do they listen to it in order to try and recreate the magical experience that they get whenever they shop at Asda? If they could, they would spend their entire day in Asda, but alas, the staff eventually move them on after about ten hours. But at least when they’re at home, they can tune into Asda FM online and feel that they are in some way still connected to the Asda store. I cannot comprehend why, of all the choice out there, someone would choose to listen to Asda FM Live online. I assume though that they must get enough online listeners to make it worth their while. Unless of course they are lying about being online, just as they are lying about being on FM, and lying about being live. The whole thing is a sham I tell you. I wouldn’t be surprised if it turns out that even the asda stores don’t actually exist, but are a very elaborate illusion, perhaps part-orchestrated by someone like Derren Brown.
Anyway, we got everything we needed in Asda (or did we? Was it just a clever Derren Brown mind trick?) including the drain unblocker, which cost £4 for a tiny bottle. We took it home, and poured it down the sink. Despite the smallness of the bottle, it seemed to do the job, but still, that’s 4 quid down the drain. Hahaha. That wasn’t my joke; it actually came from Ben. I told you these blogs would start picking up once he and Elsa got back, didn’t I?
I hope the hangover from our crazy party last night wasn’t too bad for you all this morning. I woke up really refreshed. I think my sleeping patterns maybe back to normal, as I fell asleep at 11pm, and slept right through until 7am, feeling fully awake.
I then did an article about The Young’uns for the Big Issue. So I’ve already written 2000 words today, and now I’ve got to write some more. I mean, I suppose I could cheat and use my Big Issue article as today’s Dollop, but then I am a bit worried that this might affect the newspaper’s sales, resulting in homeless people all over the country starving to death. Of course, this is working on the assumption that I am going to be that day’s headline story, the big draw to get people to buy; but is that such an outrageous assumption to make? I mean, is it? What? OK then, fair enough, probably yes.
I’d like to think that even if I did put my article up here for free that you wouldn’t refuse to buy the Big Issue as a result. I think you are all far too conscientious to do that. But I would hate it if word got back to me from the Big Issue that they’d not seen the major boost to newspaper sales that they’d imagined my presence would have afforded them. I don’t want to hear back from a member of Big Issue staff that a load of potential buyers picked up the newspaper, saw my front-page article (I assume it’ll be on the front page), said “ah, that’s a brilliant article, I read it for free on David’s website last week” and walk off, maybe chuckling to themselves remembering their favourite line from the article that’s still in their memories because of how funny it was, while the poor Big Issue vendor shivers in the street next to a pile of unsold newspapers because everyone’s already read it online for free and have already printed out their own copies, laminated it and put it up on their bedroom walls. “Curse that David Eagle,” they will whimper. “The Big Issue staff told me that today’s newspaper would sell so many copies that I’d be able to buy a house. Why did he have to put it up online for free, the bastard? Why?!” I don’t want to be a figure of hate among the homeless community of Britain.
Or even worse, the Big Issue staff might not know that I’ve put the article online for free, and when they get the disappointingly low sales figure, they conclude that I’m obviously nowhere near as popular as they assumed me to be. I’d hate them to think that. That would be a terrible blow to my ego, and would be arguably worse than the shivering, whimpering homeless people. Hey, I said “arguably,” don’t look at me like that.
I’m not sure when my article is coming out, and I probably won’t get to know. I hope though that this blog post isn’t going to result in people approaching a Big Issue seller, picking up the newspaper, rifling through it in order to see whether I’m in that day’s publication (not that you’ll have to rifle through, because I’m obviously going to be on the frontpage as their leading story) and then, upon discovering that there’s no article by me, put the paper back down and walk off. Perhaps I should email the Big Issue to warn them that this might happen, and ask them to alert me as to the day of my article’s inclusion, in order to avoid this kind of thing occurring, which could be pretty psychologically damaging for the poor Big Issue sellers.
Obviously, I am not being serious, and think it is very doubtful that my inclusion of the +article on this blog will have any affect on Big Issue sales. I may be in the Big Issue, but I am not a big issue. They’ll probably edit what I’ve written down quite a bit, baring in mind it’s 2000 words long. So I may well release the article as tomorrow’s Dollop. Then hopefully you will enjoy it so much, that you will buy loads of copies of the Big Issue and give it to your friends so that they too can enjoy my amazing words.
My housemates Ben and Elsa return from their holiday in Spain tonight, which will be good news for any Dollop readers who have missed those particular characters. I don’t know if there’s anyone out there reading this who has missed their mentions in these Dollops, but that news may bring cheer to someone reading this. I am in the house and have no plans until Saturday, so I hope that Ben and Elsa will be able to offer some inspiration for these Dollops, and not just be all boring and ordinary around the house. One of the terms and conditions of me moving into the house was that I write about them, and I haven’t done that for the last month, due to being in Australia, but now that we will be once again united tonight, I am obliged to start writing about them again.
Now and again they deliberately do things in order to gain Dollop inclusion. Elsa bought a needlessly complicated kettle, knowing that I’d mention her in my Dollop, which obviously succeeded because it spawned my hilarious kettle-based observations. Who knows, maybe they’ll have brought back another needlessly complicated household appliance for me to write about.
Oh what excitement, friends. Will it be my Big Issue article? Will it be some observations about a stupidly overly complicated domestic item? Or will it be something else entirely? Join me tomorrow to find out; as if you’d be able to resist.
Tonight, we Step into the night club of the future, where records and CDs are things of the distant past, and the DJs prefer to whip the crowd into a frenzy by using the yamaha keyboard.
My sleeping patterns are all over the place since I got back from Australia. I’ve been falling asleep at about 10pm and waking up at about 3 or 4 in the morning, unable to get back to sleep. Today I woke up at 3, and I did the egotist’s equivalent of the counting sheep exercise. I decided to go through all 92 episodes of David’s Daily Digital Dollop and tot up how many hours of audio the podcast version amounted to. Obviously I didn’t listen to them all one after another, I simply looked at the file, which had the length shown after the title. This game did not yield the soporific effect that I was hoping for, therefore I can tell you that the amount of hours this project has provided so far is just over twelve hours. I can’t remember the exact amount of time, probably due to the severe lack of sleep impacting detrimentally on my memory, but only the most pedantic of people could care about the exact amount of time. Sorry Jools. Only joking Jools, I love you really. Probably a bit too much. Stay away from me for your own safety.
We’re just over a quarter of the way through the project and I’ve already produced over half a day’s worth of audio. If the Dollops continue to be of a similar length, then by the end of the year I will have produced two days’ worth of audio.
It would take you two days’ of uninterrupted listening to listen to David’s Daily Digital Dollop from start to finish. I wonder what psychological effects that would have on someone if they did decide to do that, although, to be honest, if they have made the decision to do such a thing then they are clearly already psychologically damaged. Having said that, does anyone fancy giving it a go? You could maybe do it as a sponsored event for charity. Two days of uninterrupted listening. You’re not allowed to sleep, but you are allowed to eat and go to the toilet, so long as you keep your headphones on at all times. I think the psychological damage caused by this endeavour would be severe enough without compounding it by the fact that you’re also sitting in your own waste matter, because you didn’t have the foresight to stipulate the rules about toilet visits.
“So, tell me, how did the charity Dollopathon for the British Deaf Association go, mate?”
“I got six hours in and I was already starting to hallucinate and think terrible dark thoughts. Then he started talking about watery cat faeces, and I couldn’t take it any more.”
“But what about the money? What about those poor deaf people?”
“Sod the deaf people! At least they’ll never have to suffer the harrowing experience of listening to David talking about his kettle for hours and hours. Those deaf people will never have to experience that, the lucky bastards.”
Perversely, I think the only person that has any chance of ever considering doing the two day Dollopathon, tragically, is me, probably while masturbating as well. Obviously that was a joke, because I wouldn’t be the only person, as I’m sure Chloe would be well up for that sort of thing. Perhaps we could do it together Chloe? For charity you understand, obviously, not for our own perverted enjoyment, clearly for charity.
At some point though, I probably am going to have to go through these Dollops, because the idea is that I want to take some of the content generated by this project and turn it into standup routines. I have been very lapsed with standup, having only ever done four gigs in the space of a three year period. I’ve written about those experiences in previous blogs. If you’re interested then go here to access the standup category of my blog, which will provide you with all the blogs I’ve written about my incipient standup experiences.
The last standup spot I did was in February 2015. at Manchester’s Comedy Store at an event called the King Gong, where each act gets a maximum of five minutes to perform. However, audience members are issued with red cards, and if three red cards are held up then you are dismissed. I won’t reveal what happened in this blog post, in case you want to read all about it, which you can do by accessing the above links, however I will divulge the fact that I didn’t make the full five minutes. In fairness, the comedians who did make the full five minutes were in the minority – the atmosphere was rather gladiatorial, with audience members seemingly enjoying the power that having the cards afforded them – and those comedians had clearly performed their routine many times before, whereas I was doing the material for the first time.
I’d really like to go back and do the King Gong night again at some point, but I’m not sure how valuable it is for me to be trying out ideas for the first time in such a setting. I think it would be better for me to go to non-competitive nights first and build up the routine a bit before throwing it on the mercy of a load of drunken people who enjoy having the power to dismiss you if you haven’t made a joke about cocks within the first thirty seconds. Maybe that’s a bit unfair on the audience and the night, but I’m sure you get my point. If I had to write these Dollops in a room full of drunk people looking at what I’d written and loudly berating me, then I doubt that I’d have written very much. I think, even the fact that I’d have some fans in the room with me wouldn’t offer much in the way of comfort: Jools would be shouting out grammatical corrections, while Chloe would be feverishly masturbating, which would both be highly off-putting for very different reasons.
if I can get some experience of doing non-competitive spots in a more friendly environment, then I can really develop and work things out, so that I am then ready to return to the King Gong more prepared. That is my logic anyway. Perhaps it’s just an excuse born out of fear, but I think it makes sense.
I know it would be more interesting for this blog if I did go an do the King Gong nights, but I don’t want to obliterate my confidence about doing comedy altogether, just for the sake of entertaining a few hundred blog readers and podcast listeners. The only reason I am trying out standup comedy anyway is because I’ve had lots of people saying that I should do it, and eventually they have ground me down, so it’s not as if I’ve made this decision based on my own self-assuredness and have lots of confidence about my abilities. At one point I was having meetings with a massive agent who represents loads of A-list entertainers (I won’t reveal who it is and how it happened, as I’m saving that for the book. That is a joke, just in case you took that literally and branded me an arrogant idiot), who was interested in my comedy career, but I managed to let that slip due to my lack of confidence and thus in turn my lack of commitment. Chances are though that these opportunities are all still out there, and I might be able to pick them back up once I start doing some gigs. It’s good to have spoken with so many people, including big-time high profile agents, who have faith in my abilities, even if I don’t really have much faith in them and am riddled with, at time,s crippling self-doubt.
Perhaps I should be using this blog as a way of committing myself to action. Perhaps my goal for the end of the year should be to have done some gigs, then gone to the last King Gong of the year and last the full five minutes. Hopefully, this blog post will prove to be the catalyst for taking positive action. The main purpose of doing these Dollops was to help create material for standup, and I think it’s succeeded in that. I mean, the crowd are going to go wild for my ninety minute standup show all about kettles. Chloe: if you decide to come to the show, could you please make sure to sit at the back? Thanks.
I hope you appreciate the amazing cleverness of today’s Dollop title: Stand Up And Be Counted. I am talking about standup, and this blog is about holding myself to account. But also, the first part of this blog post was all about me counting the amount of hours this project comprises. Not funny, but very clever. Are you having that, Jools?
I’m now over a quarter of the way through this project. Only 274 consecutive daily blog posts to go, easy beansy. Hang on, no, that’s not right, it’s easy peasy, isn’t it? I got peas and beans confused there. I’ve clearly been spending too much time with my lady friend from Sainsbury’s. +Oh yes, yet another hilarious joke courtesy of David’s Daily Digital Dollop. What are you going to do with your lives when this project is over and you’re not treated to jokes like that on a daily basis any more?
My frequent references to sainsbury’s has caused a little bit of disgruntlement with one Michael Wackington, who commented on Dollop 90 saying, “Sainsbury’s … why not your local Co-op,?) The first time I mentioned that I’d gone to Sainsbury’s in these Dollops, I was sure that someone would question my shopping habits, suggesting that I shouldn’t be using supermarkets.
This is the problem with going around the world singing all these songs of social conscience: people expect you to actually really have those values, rather than the fact that I obviously just do it for financial gain, conning the gullible lefty idiots out of their money. We tell them all sorts of nonsense, and they just lap it up, the feckless fools: our CDS are made out of bio degradable material and contain 100 % organic music, recorded in a studio which is powered purely by the sun. Actually, this statement isn’t entirely false, although, what the gullible lefty idiots don’t know is that when I say the sun, I am not referring to solar power, but the fact that our albums are funded by Rupert Murdoch’s tabloid newspaper. In fact, if you listen to our albums in reverse, you’ll discover that it’s littered with subliminal sensationalist, factually inaccurate right-wing propaganda. The only reason none of the folk magazines or radio stations have outed us is because our connections with Murdoch means that we’ve got access to everyone’s personal phone calls and data, and we’ve amassed a large archive of incriminating evidence which we’re ready to unleash on the public if word gets out. One false move from Mark Radcliffe and we’ll reveal what he got up to in Soho in July 2010. One tiny remark from Mike Harding and you’ll all get to hear about that thing with the goat in August 2012. There is a reason why we won the BBC Radio 2 Folk Award last year; you didn’t think it was talent did you? Of course it wasn’t. We’re hardly going to win a Folk Award on merit, at least not until we ditch Michael Hughes. And we’ll win it this year as well, unless one of the other nominated bands have done a similar deal with a disreputable tabloid publication.
Anyway, the reason I shop at Sainsbury’s, Michael Wackington, is because it is only a five minutes walk away from where I live. Plus it is well staffed, meaning that it’s easy for me to get help from someone, because being blind I need someone to get the things for me. My nearest co-op is over a mile away, and is nowhere near as big or as well staffed, meaning that it would probably be more difficult to get someone to go around the shop with me.
In my defence, when I was living in Manchester, I used to shop at the independent shops that were on my street. Also, at that time I was in a relationship with a girl who lived right next to a co-op. I know check me out. In fact, that was the reason we started going out. She mentioned her proximity to the co-op and I instantly became sexually aroused. She’d inadvertently discovered my sexual Achilles heal, and I just couldn’t resist. The next thing I knew we were both naked. Let’s just say that the shop wasn’t the only thing in her street that night that was cooperative. (I’m suggesting that we had sex, just in case the joke was too subtle for you.) Let’s just say that the shop wasn’t the only thing in her street that night that was doing special offers. (I’m referring to sex again there; I wouldn’t want you to miss the jokes because they’re too clever for your unsophisticated mind.) Let’s just say that it wasn’t just the prices in the shop in her street that were dropping that night. (That’s a joke about her dropping her knickers, because we had sex, so naturally her knickers had to come down to facilitate the sex. OK, are you catching on to what’s going on now? Right, OK, well let’s see if you can spot the jokes without my help from now on.) Let’s just say that the shop wasn’t the only thing in her street that night that was hosting a blowout sale. (no, are you still struggling? That’s a reference to oral sex. ,Keep trying, you’ll get there. I know I’m very quick and very clever with the comedy. Don’t beat yourself up about it.) Let’s just say that the shop wasn’t the only thing in her street that was open all night. (haha, yes, you got that one? Well done.) Let’s just say that the shop wasn’t the only thing in her street that night that was experiencing unexpected items in the bagging area. (What? You’re struggling with that one are you? OK, that’s fine, let’s work through it slowly together. So you know how those self-service checkouts often say “unexpected items in the bagging area?” yes? Good, OK, well I’m taking that well-known phrase and reappropriating it in a sexual context, which could be interpreted as suggesting that we were engaging in anal sex, or alternatively that I was inserting various objects into her. It’s open to individual interpretation. It’s an open-ended punchline that allows the joke’s recipient to create their own meaning.) Let’s just say that the shop wasn’t the only thing in her street that night that … er … I think I’ve run out. Even a comedy genius such as me has his limits. Feel free to insert your own – which come to think of it was one of the things she said to me that night. Hahahaha, I’m unstoppable!
So if it’s any consolation for Michael Wackington, when I was going out with my girlfriend, we would often shop at the co-op. If you feel as if me shopping at Sainsbury’s is in some way unethical, Michael, blame it on my ex for breaking up with me. If we were still together then I’d still be shopping at the co-op. In fact, we’d probably be buying even more food than before, because we’d be comfort eating in order to take our minds off our miserable, failing relationship. I’ll text her and suggest we get back together. After all, we owe it to the planet!
My ex-girlfriend reads this and comments from time-to-time (I know, she’s clearly regretting her decision, now that she’s seen just how funny I am in these daily Dollops) so perhaps she will get in touch and we can restart our previously failed relationship, simply in order to save the world. And obviously we’ll have to have lots of sex, not because we want to, or in anyway still have feelings for each other, but because the more sex we have, the more condoms we buy from the co-op, making our ethical cause all the more stronger. In fact, why don’t we go the whole hog (which come to think of it was another one of the things she said to me that night) and get married. We could have a co-operative wedding, with everything sourced from the co-op: all the food, the confetti, we could have one of the DJs on the co-op’s instore radio station doing the wedding disco. And then it probably wouldn’t be too long before we end up getting on each other’s tits again, due to us being essentially utterly incompatible, meaning that we drive each other insane and end up killing each other. Of course this would be great news for the co-operative, because we’d have already given instructions to our families that in the event of our deaths we want to have a lavish funeral, provided of course by co-operative Funeral Care. A perfect, flawless, ethical, world-saving plan, I’m sure you’ll agree, Michael Wackington. As long as I don’t die before my 366th consecutive daily blog post, I am more than happy to marry my ex, with a view to us killing each other at the start of 2017. I await her comment with interest.
Michael also goes onto ask me if I tasted the Australian fruit the fingerlime while I was Down Under, which sadly I didn’t, as I was unaware of its existence until now.
“If Peter Kay wants the Finger Lime line, I can split the royalties with you,” writes Michael. Excellent thinking Michael, although I think that perhaps it would be too much of a niche fruit for his English fans, but would go down a treat in Australia, assuming that the Australian audiences have sophisticated enough comedy pallets to appreciate the joke.
“I also want to buy a fingerlime.”
“What? A What?! Fingerlime.” Pause, to heighten the tension; make the audience wait for the big laugh that they’re teetering on the brink of. “Finger?! Lime?!” Another pause, to create further anticipation. “Lime?! Finger? Finger Lime?! As in … like, a lime that tastes of a finger? No thank you. I mean, I wouldn’t imagine it would taste very nice!” Huge eruption of laughter and thirty minutes of WILD applause. Obviously I don’t have the skills of delivery to do the joke justice, but Peter Kay would tear the place apart with that one. Well done Michael Wackington, it’s good to have you onboard.
