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This is going to have to be a very hastily written Dollop, as the Folk Awards are about to commence in the next hour, and I doubt I’d get away with typing up a Dollop while sitting in the ceremony. However, if you see me on the TV typing on my laptop, or even worse, muttering the audio Dollop into a digital recorder, then you know that this project has really driven me insane, to the point where I’m willing to sabotage a BBC awards ceremony and in the process ensure that we’ll never be invited back again. So apologies if this Dollop is a bit short and not very interesting or entertaining. At least I provided you with an amazing stream of consciousness blog yesterday all about sandwiches, which will clearly more than make up for any shortfall today.

I am sitting at the bottom of a staircase in one of the bars in the Royal Albert Hall. Everyone else is drinking around me, but I am resolutely keeping this challenge going. You see Dad, there’s no need to worry about my mental health, and that I’m spending all my life preoccupied about blogging. The good news is that these Dollops are stopping me from drinking, thus being good for both my mental and physical health. I mean, chances are that this challenge will eventually end up driving me to drink and becoming a full-blown alcoholic, but the good news is that, at least for now, it’s resulting in me drinking a lot less.

We arrived at the Royal Albert Hall with about ten minutes to spare. We then had to go through security checks before they believed who we were and that we were actually meant to be on the Simon Mayo show. They asked us lots of questions. It seemed like we were going to end up missing our spot as a result of being held up by the security staff. I did try suggesting to the security staff that they could verify that we were The Young’uns by locating our website, which would surely take a lot less time than all of the phoning through to different departments, which was what was currently happening. I thought that this made perfect sense, but it probably just made me sound arrogant. To be honest, I was probably looking rather suspicious, as I was carrying a big bag containing my laptop and other electronic equipment in order to do the Dollop.

Eventually we were allowed through with just five minutes to spare. We were ushered into a waiting room where we saw our good friends The Unthanks, who had just been on the show. We loudly and enthusiastically greeted each other, at which point a harassed producer came running in waving her hands at us and whispering for us to keep the noise down. It took us a few seconds to realise this as we were too busy chattering away and hugging each other, plus she was whispering, so we didn’t really hear her. The reason for her whispering and waving was because she was trying to get us to keep the noise down. The three of us hadn’t realised that the studio was literally next door, and apparently, according to the whispering producer, we could be heard in the studio and would be able to be heard on the radio. In fairness to the three of us, we didn’t know that the studio was so close to where we were, but The Unthanks were aware of this because they’d just been on the show, so if there is anyone from the Simon Mayo team reading this, I hope you can see that the fault clearly lies with the Unthanks and not us.

A minute later we were whisked into the studio, which was literally next-door, so it’s likely that the producer wasn’t exaggerating about us being audible on the radio. We were warned by the producer that we literally would only have two minutes in which to do the briefest of chats and then sing. Baring in mind that the song was 1 minute 40, the chat would have to be very brief. However, when at 557, Simon went to the traffic news, the line wasn’t working, meaning that they came to us earlier than planned. Whether this had anything to do with me or not I cannot say. Whether I happened to use one of the electronic bits of equipment housed in my bag in order to jam the studio line and thus buy us more radio time, I cannot say. But it worked a treat, and we ended up getting 2 minutes thirty seconds on the air as a result, which was well worth the days of electronic research and tinkering, or, I mean, it would have been worth it, if I had actually been responsible for the traffic being curtailed; which I am not divulging.

If you want to know how our Simon Mayo appearance went, then give it a listen. We’re on at 557. Or have a listen from 550, and see if you can hear the sounds of us and The Unthanks shouting away in the background.

At the time of writing, we are currently the holders of the BBC Radio 2 Folk Award for best group. What will the next few hours bring? Tune in to BBC radio 2 from 7pm today to find out.

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The amount of bread we have eaten on this tour is ridiculous. We get up and leave first thing in the morning, and there isn’t really time to sit down and eat anywhere, and so we just grab a sandwich. Getting a salad would be more preferable and healthier, but the three of us eating salads in the van isn’t particularly practical. It can be rather messy, with those tubs of sauce that often come with them, and it’s hard for us all to eat at the same time, as there isn’t enough room for the three of us to wield our forks; we end up just elbowing each other in the face. Then we get to the venue, and the people have provided sandwiches for us. After the gig we are hungry, but often everywhere is closed apart from the take away places which serve burgers, pizzas or kebabs, which all have a bread element.

This morning, I had a ploughman’s sandwich. I mean, that was the name of the sandwich, in case you were thinking that I’d stolen food from a ploughman, perhaps waiting until he started ploughing and had his back turned to me, allowing me to make off with his butties without him realising.

The ploughman’s sandwich consisted of ham, cheese, tomato, lettuce and pickle, which are obviously the five top things that a ploughman likes to have in his sandwich. I assume they did a survey of lots of ploughmen, asking them what they liked in their sandwich, and then collated that information to create a bespoke sandwich tailored to the ploughman community. The ploughmen would no doubt have been immensely grateful that someone had bothered to put the effort in, perhaps wondering why they had been given such special treatment.

I enjoyed my ploughman’s sandwich, or at least as much as a man who is fed up to the back teeth – both literally and figuratively – with bread could be expected to enjoy a sandwich. But as I ate it I wondered why the ploughmen get a bespoke sandwich made for them, and why no one has thought to branch out and cater for people working in other fields (by which I am referring to jobs, jobs that don’t involve working in fields; I probably could have chosen a better word there).

What about the Data Annalist’s sandwich? or the IT Consultant’s sandwich? These people continue to be completely unrepresented in sandwich form, yet these are very common jobs. How many ploughmen do you know? But I bet you know at least one person who works in IT? The sandwich industry has clearly failed to move with the times, and doesn’t seem to have recognised the huge decline in ploughmen, and the many new jobs that have emerged as a result of the industrial and communications age. The sandwich makers are clearly out of touch with the real world.

I’m not saying that the ploughmen can’t still have their special bespoke sandwich. I am suggesting that the sandwich makers should also be reaching out to other professions and survey them about what they would like in their sandwich, and then cater for that community with their own special bespoke sandwich. I am happy to start the ball rolling and help the sandwich makers get started with this venture. So, if you could leave a comment on this blog telling me what your ideal sandwich would consist of, and then let me know your profession, I will collate the results and send them to the people working in sandwich production.

I suggest the first group of workers we target are the sandwich makers themselves. I mean, they are clearly the experts, the people who make sandwiches for a living, who have tried many and varied combinations of ingredients. Surely they of all people should know what it takes to make the perfect sandwich. If I wanted to buy a sandwich, I’d rather by a sandwich that has been specially designed for the highly discerning and skilled sandwich maker than a sandwich that’s been made for a man working on a field. No disrespect to ploughmen, but all I’m saying is that if I want a sandwich, I’d rather have a sandwich that’s been designed by and for the sandwich making community, just as if I wanted my field ploughing (and that reminds me, I really must get on the phone to someone about that) I would choose to get it done by a ploughman, and not a sandwich maker.

It would be interesting to see whether there is any correlation with the results. Will there even be a perfect sandwich that’s agreed on by the majority of people who just so happen to work in the same Job? Or will we discover that sandwich preference is not at all dependant on the job you do? Might it be that the only workers who agree on the perfect sandwich are ploughman? Maybe this is why none of the other jobs have sandwiches designed especially for them, as ploughmen are the only ones who have a collective opinion on sandwiches. Perhaps someone has already tried to do this work before, and found that asking people working in the same job to give their favourite sandwich yielded completely different results, with some people hating the very foods that other people said they loved. Maybe the sandwich makers got so confused and beaten down by their attempts to make bespoke sandwiches for these people that they eventually gave it up as a lost cause. If anyone knows then please get in touch.

If you’ve found this Dollop uninteresting or weird then blame it on the bread; it’s gone to my head.

Oh, I’ve just remembered that I haven’t even mentioned the original subject I was going to write about. We are doing the Simon Mayo BBC Radio 2 show tomorrow. We’re on just before the 6 O’clock news, and when I say “just before,” that is exactly what I mean. Apparently we only have about two minutes. That will be barely enough time for us to sing a song. There probably won’t be any time to talk about sandwiches unfortunately, as this would give me the perfect platform to start collating people’s professions and sandwich preferences. We might have to scrap the song.

Tomorrow we are at the BBC Radio 2 Folk Awards at the Albert Hall. After tomorrow we may no longer be the Best folk group. I hope you won’t dessert these Dollops if the result goes against us.

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A few days ago, Boris Johnson made some risible remarks in the Sun Newspaper about Obama getting rid of the bust of Sir Winston Churchill from the Oval Office.

“Something mysterious happened when Barack Obama entered the Oval Office in 2009.
Something vanished from that room, and no one could quite explain why.
It was a bust of Winston Churchill – the great British war time leader. It had sat there for almost ten years. But on day one of the Obama administration it was returned, without ceremony, to the British embassy in Washington.
No one was sure whether the President had himself been involved in the decision.
Some said it was a snub to Britain. Some said it was a symbol of the part-Kenyan President’s ancestral dislike of the British empire – of which Churchill had been such a fervent defender.”

This seems like a very weak, shoehorned attempt to suggest that Obama is in some way anti-British, presumably in an effort to discredit his motives and his position about Britian staying in the EU. Otherwise why reference it? This is the opening paragraph of his article, so Boris has clearly deemed it an important point on which to hang the rest of the argument.

His manner of writing engenders a feeling of conspiracy: “Something mysterious happened when Barack Obama entered the Oval Office in 2009 …” “Something vanished from that room …” Boris does his best to keep the atmosphere of conspiracy alive, by writing: “No one was sure whether the President had himself been involved in the decision.
Some said it was a snub to Britain. Some said it was a symbol of the part-Kenyan President’s ancestral dislike of the British empire …” Clearly this is just vague conjecture then, as Boris is tacitly admitting, only veiling it in the cloak of conspiracy and intrigue.

I’m sure many Sun readers will be sucked into Boris’s style of writing, and will already be horrified by Obama’s Anti-British audacity, to remove a bust of this “great British war time leader.” He clearly added that description of Churchill to stir up patriotic emotion within readers, unless he honestly thought that the people reading might not know who Churchill is.

Perhaps he was worried that some people might get confused and imagine that Obama removed a bust of the nodding dog from the insurance TV adverts. I suppose that would put a different spin on Obama’s decision. Boris wouldn’t want to discredit his entire article by having his readers completely miss the point and assume that Obama had spotted a bust of a dog from a British TV advert, and decided to remove it. Boris’s readers would be confused as to why Boris was making such a big thing of this. After all, it seems like a perfectly logical thing for Obama to do. I mean, this was a bust of a dog from an advert that wasn’t even on American television. Of all the iconic things that could possibly be hanging from the Ovel Office, surely a bust of a talking dog from a British TV advert was a highly odd and dubious choice.

Boris had said that it had been hanging there for almost ten years, since 1999. The Churchill dog only started appearing on British television in 2004, so there would have been five years when even British people visiting the Ovel Office wouldn’t recognise the bust. Perhaps the bust went largely ignored for the first five years. No one quite understood what the heck it was and why it was there, but it was harmless enough and so it was just left to hang. But then 2004 came and the TV adverts started appearing on British screens and every time someone from Britain entered the Ovel Office, they would mysteriously turn towards the dog and say “oh yes” in an odd voice, before laughing. Obama might have heard about this strange British quirk and the mysterious and parculiar affect that the dog bust had on British people.

He’d been told how Gordon Brown found it all highly amusing, sometimes spending minutes lost in his own world having a conversation with the dog, then replying to his questions in the dog’s voice. “Will I still be PM after the election?” “Oh yes,” “Should we keep spending?” “Oh yes.” Obama consequently had the dog bust removed both for his sanity and the sanity of Gordon Brown and all the other weird British people who took up hours of precious presidential time talking to the dog and saying “oh yes” and then laughing, rather than concentrating on the important reason for their visit.

Despite Boris’s best efforts to make his Sun article opener sound like an interesting, worthy conspiracy theory, all he really does is highlight how much of a none story this is: “No one was sure whether the President had himself been involved in the decision.” And surely that’s the point Boris; no one was sure. You’ve chosen to hang your argument on this weakest of threads, and you yourself have had to admit that the decision to remove the bust might not have had anything to do with Obama anyway. So you can dress it up as an interesting conspiracy theory if you want, but essentially it’s a none-story, which has subsequently been debunked as complete bollocks. Apparently the bust was removed before Obama entered office, although, in fairness to Boris, no one was sure that Obama didn’t employ a psychic to send telepathic messages to people in the white house to have the bust removed before he became president, in order to make it appear that the decision had nothing to do with him.

The fact that he also writes, “some people said …” is also very vague, and is extra indication that this theory of Boris’s is just that, a theory, a very weak conspiracy theory on which he pins his argument, clearly as a way to try and get the idea across that Obama is in some way anti-British.

Fortunately, the leave campaign has much more credible people behind it, and doesn’t solely consist of Boris Johnson and his peculiar fatuous conspiracy theories, otherwise they might be in trouble. The good news for the leave team is that they have Nigel farage onboard, who’s much more level headed and wouldn’t waste time concocting peculiar, spurious theories about Obama.

Nigel Farage was dismissive of Obama’s comments about Britain leaving the EU. Obama said that Britain could face being pushed to the back of the queue when it came to drawing up trade agreements with the US. But Nigel Farage wasn’t having any of it, accusing Obama of merely parroting the British PM. But as you’d expect, Farage wasn’t going to make such a statement glibly, he hadn’t merely jumped to this conclusion on next to no hard or real evidence. Obama might have got away with merely parroting the PM, were it not for Farage’s impressive intellect and powers of deduction. This is what he said to Sky news:

“”He said ‘We’d be at the back of the queue’. “Interesting, isn’t it? Americans don’t use the word ‘queue’. They use the word ‘line’ … So he’s clearly just parroting Cameron.”

Yes, very interesting Nigel. An observation that both shows off your amazing detective skills and also clearly showcases your abilities as a worthy contributor on Countdown’s Dictionary Corner. The Pro leave people were jubilant, ecstatic that Obama had been found out by Nigel’s incredible powers of deduction. If he’d have only said “line” then presumably Farage and the leave campaigners would have been more accepting of Obama’s words, but he said “queue,” didn’t he? He did, he said “queue,” and American’s don’t say “queue,” so he was obviously merely parroting the PM. In fact, no one was sure that David Cameron didn’t have Obama hypnotised to repeat that phrase whenever someone asked about how leaving the EU would affect Britain drawing up trade agreements with the US. No one was sure that that didn’t happen. If only they’d hypnotised him to say “line” instead of queue, then Cameron and the pro EU team would have gotten away with it, but they didn’t, did they? He was programmed to say “queue,” not “line,” and of course, Americans don’t say “queue,” they say “line,” don’t they? What a bunch of mind-manipulating idiots Cameron and the Pro EU brigade are. If only they’d said “queue” not “line,” then it would have all been fine.

Except … Americans do say queue. It’s in the American Dictionaries. I’ve checked. It took me less than two minutes to find the definition of queue in five different American dictionaries. You’d have thought maybe Farage could have spared a couple of minutes to do some cursory linguistic research before he presented his theory to the media. But in fairness to farage, it sounds like a really good theory, and it would be a shame to have it ruined just because it doesn’t happen to be factually accurate.

Granted, the word queue is less common in America than it is in England, but it’s not as if the word is never used and would be completely alien to Obama. Also, Obama does tend to travel quite a bit, and has been to Britain before, so it’s not unlikely that he’s picked up some of our lingo. After all, Farage is married to a German woman, who presumably speaks English, but I assume that Farage is happy to accept this and doesn’t accuse her of merely being his parrot? But I might be wrong. After all, no one is sure that Farage doesn’t force his wife to put on a costume made of feathers, flap her arms about, squawk and then repeat everything that Nigel says, only in the voice of a parrot. Some people say that he does this because he finds it sexually arousing. Some people say that he does this because he is an oddball with a weird power complex. No one is sure.

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Another really enjoyable and very long day yesterday. We were in the van by 8am to drive to Bristol in time for a BBC Radio Bristol interview with Doctor and comedian Phil Hammond. It was great to meet him, as I am a big fan of his work; I’m not too fussed with his comedy, but his administering of prescriptive medical drugs is very efficient and always on-the-money.

After the gig, we went to an Indian restaurant with some friends. Everyone’s meals arrived at the same time, apart from mine. I noticed that everyone was waiting for mine to arrive before they started. I instructed them to start eating, but they said that they would wait. Five minutes elapsed and still my meal hadn’t arrived. Upon enquiring, the waiter said he would go and investigate. Five minutes later he returned. The others still hadn’t started their meals, despite my repeated protestations that they really should.

The waiter enthusiastically informed me that the reason my meal was taking slightly longer was because they were preparing something very special for me, It was clear that they’d simply forgotten my order and he was trying to cover up their mistake. After all, Sean had ordered the exact same meal and his had arrived with everyone else’s. If my meal was more special than Sean’s, even though he had ordered the same thing, it would be a bit of a slap in the face for Sean and everyone else, baring in mind that they’d had to wait for mine to arrive, meaning that I got an hot extra special meal while everyone else ate an inferior cold meal. There seemed no reason or logic why I would be given an extra special meal, unless the waiter was a fan of David’s Daily Digital Dollop, in which case I suppose that’s perfectly understandable.

I tried again to insist that the others started their meals. Michael and Sean had already started, as they knew that I’d genuinely prefer it if they did, but everyone else in our party refused to start until my meal arrived. I tried explaining that it was more polite of them to start than to wait, as waiting was merely making me feel guilty and awkward. But they politely just kept saying, “no, it’s OK, we don’t mind, we’ll wait.”

How annoyingly stupidly British these people were being. My nan bread had already arrived, and I was eating that, which I was perfectly happy to have as a starter, in fact I normally eat the nan first anyway, so the wait wasn’t really inconveniencing me at all. I was happy to drink my pint, eat some nan and chat while the others ate. But still they refused to eat. It got to the point where I was begging people to eat, but they still refused, out of some warped version of politeness which they were mercilessly battering me with.

Eventually my meal arrived. Sean and I did a comparison. They both tasted exactly the same, only mine was hot. I wonder who’s meal was more enjoyable. I had a freshly cooked hot meal, but was unable to properly enjoy it as I was aware that everyone was now eating cold food that had been sat there for fifteen minutes, and thus I felt massively guilty, even though I’d tried to convince them to eat. However, they might have been eating cold food, but they were no doubt doing so while basking in their self-satisfied smugness.

After the meal, the waiter came back and asked us how everything was. I decided to pretend that I’d believed his story about my meal being more special than the others. I profusely thanked him for the extra effort he’d put in. Unless he was prepared to admit that he’d been lying before about the special meal, he’d be forced to keep up the pretence. I enthusiastically asked him to tell me more about my meal, and how it differed to Sean’s. I could tell that he was starting to regret his dishonesty. I don’t think he was quite sure whether I knew he was lying and that I was winding him up. I asked him loads of questions about how the meal differed. He said that he’d used some special spices. I then asked him why he’d chosen me as the special one. His energy, composure and enthusiasm was starting to falter. I wanted to keep going to see if I could make him crack and admit that he’d been lying, but some of the people around the table were starting to get uncomfortable, so I left it. Yet again, politeness had spoiled the fun.

This Dollop has been the most rushed and difficult one to write so far. But if it’s a bit rubbish, hopefully you will be too polite to say so.

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So today marks 400 years since the death of Shakespeare. The radio was talking about Shakespeare none-stop on our car journey from Hampshire to Bristol. There were lots of interviews with school children and teachers who were all passionately talking about Shakespeare’s work. It’s amazing that Shakespeare’s plays are still being taught in schools, 400 years after his death, and are still appreciated by children and adults all over the world. Shakespeare can’t have had any idea that his plays would be studied in such meticulous detail, adapted and given so many different treatments, and would still be put on in theatres centuries later. He would be incredbly surprised to find that his work has had such an impact on future generations.

I would certainly be immensely surprised if I knew that David’s Daily Digital Dollop was lorded in a similar way, given multiple theatre, television and radio treatments, and studied for centuries by school children all over the world. I am not being arragant here. I am saying that I would be massively surprised about the fact, but there is just no knowing which works will stand the test of time, and there are examples of writers, poets and artists not being appreciated fully in their own time, but then recognised as a genius by people after their death, and worshiped by future generations. Perhaps my Dollops are too ahead of their time.

Hello to any children from the future who may be reading this, trying to make sense of my strange antiquated style of English, and you are sick to death of having to endlessly analyse my pros. Maybe your school is about to put on a theatrical performance of my elevator music composer blog. Or maybe you’ve been asked to write an essay about my work: “David’s Daily Digital Dollop: comedy or tragedy? Discuss.”

Yesterday we did another afternoon in a primary school. The three of us were each given a microphone to wear which was wirelessly connected to a deaf child’s hearing aids. All the children seemed to have really enjoyed themselves, although the exception might have been the poor deaf child who’s potentially going to suffer long-term psychological trauma after what he faced yesterday.

The attachment on Sean’s microphone was quite loose, and every time Sean moved too much it fell onto the floor. The sound of the microphone hitting the floor must have generated a rather loud sound in the deaf child’s ears, as he jumped and shouted out in shock. This must have happened about five times over the hour. A little later on, Michael put on his guitar and I started playing the accordion. We both forgot that we were wearing micophones attached to hearing aids, Michael’s guitar kept knocking against the microphone and my microphone was in direct contact with the accordion’s bellows. Seeing the discomfort on the deaf child’s face, Michael and I moved our microphones away from our instruments, attaching them to our trouser pockets. This seemed to be working absolutely fine, until both of our microphones eventually detached themselves from the outside of our pockets, and slipped down into our pockets. These were the same pockets that were housing our mobile phones, and the child was apparently then treated to some very loud electronic interference being generated by both our phones. In addition to this, he’d also got a shock whenever Michael and I received a notification on our phones, as the phones vibrated directly against the mics. Michael and I were both receiving the same notifications from The Young’uns Twitter account, and given that we had a gig that day, there were a lot of tweets coming in, meaning that our phones were both vibrating very frequently.

Afterwards, the teacher thanked us for coming into the school and said that she was sure we’d given the children an afternoon that would stay with them for a long time. I’m not sure how true that will be for the other children, but I’m sure the memory of our visit will stay with that poor deaf child for a very long time, and might prove the cause of future psychological problems.

After the lesson I visited the toilet, and it wasn’t until I’d returned to the school hall that I realised I had still got my microphone attached. I assume that the signal wouldn’t stretch that far, but I might be wrong. Fortunately I was humming to myself while I was going about my business, so I doubt that the sound of the weeing would have been audible anyway. And as certain Dollop listeners might be able to tell you, I am not a noisy urinater. If you are wondering what I’m talking about, then feel free to listen to the audio Dollop from two days ago, and continue to listen until you reach your level of squeamishness or decency.

I wonder how often the teachers inadvertently leave their microphones on, and whether this deaf child has heard loads of private conversations between teachers. Who knows what salacious bits of gossip he is privy to. He’s probably the riches kid in the school, due to blackmailing all of his teachers, threatening to reveal their dirty secrets unless they pay him to keep quiet. So don’t feel sorry for that deaf child. He is a manipulative, devilish Iago type character. You see how I referenced Iago, simply because it’s 400 years since the death of Shakespeare, and thus tying all the themes of this blog together perfectly. Did you see what I did there kids? Also the title of the Dollop is a pun on a Shakespeare play. I just thought I’d point that out for you students of the future, just in case you hadn’t got the pun; I’m helping you out with your essay writing here. Shakespeare didn’t have the foresight to help students of the future analyse his work. So does this make me more of a genius than Shakespeare? That is not for me to say. That is for you to say in your essays, studnets of the future and consequently get top marks for factual accuracy.

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The Bridgwater Arts Centre joins The Edinburgh Pleasance Theatre in being responsible for thwarting the uploading of the audio Dollop. Their WIFI connection was working perfectly in the afternoon, but by the time I’d finished editing the audio version at 720, the WIFI connection had disappeared and didn’t return. I should have had both written and audio versions of yesterday’s Dollop published for 730, but lack of WIFI meant that the audio version couldn’t be uploaded and I had to use my phone’s Internet to publish the written version.

We arrived at the Bed and Breakfast just before midnight, but alas there was no WIFI. There were signs all over the place, proclaiming that their breakfasts were multi award winning. We have clearly broken new ground in terms of our status in the folk world. There was a time when we would stay at B&Bs that hadn’t won even one award, and now here we are staying in places that have been awarded multiple times. I am of course aware that we may currently be at a high point in our career, and that one day we are likely to be back on our way down, and we’ll be booked into places that only serve breakfasts which have merely managed to secure one award win, or possibly even a place that serves a breakfast that has only been nominated for an award. I will accept this fate with good grace, for I am not arrogant, and I don’t do this for the award winning breakfasts, or at least not entirely for that reason anyway. But if we get to a point where I find myself eating a breakfast that has neither won or even been nominated for an award, then I will know that it’s time to bow out and retire.

So there we were, in the morning, a multi award winning folk group eating a multi award winning breakfast, our multi award winning lips gracing their multi award winning food. I could never have dared dream of such a moment when I was a child. I imagine all the other diners were looking on in reverent astonishment, unable to believe their good fortune, that they were eating with a multi award winning band who were eating a multi award winning breakfast, whilst they themselves ate a multi award winning breakfast. The other diners must have wondered what it was like to be a multi award winning band eating a multi award winning breakfast, imagining that it must be a highly incredible and enviable experience. But they were wrong. The breakfast was very nice, and no doubt deserving of its multi awards, but I was unable to appreciate it, as I was smarting about the lack of Internet. The expert panel of judges may have found their award winning organic apple juice to be sweet, revitalising and refreshing, but I had an acrid taste in my mouth, for I had yet again had to swallow the bitter pill of audio Dollop failure. I kept trying to locate a WIFI network, but there was nothing, not a sausage, multi award winning or otherwise.

We were about to embark on a three hour drive to a school in Hampshire for our next community project. We wouldn’t get to the arts centre until about 5pm, and so I wouldn’t be able to upload the audio version until then, at the earliest, making this the biggest failure of this challenge so far.

We received another complaint after our gig a couple of nights ago in London. A very drunk woman was annoyed with us for one of our songs. The song was about Dr Kate Stone, who had a harrowing and near-fatal encounter with a wild stag, which charged at her, puncturing her neck and very nearly killing her. While she was recuperating in hospital, re-learning to walk and talk, various newspaper journalists were reporting on her story, but choosing to principally focus on the irrelevant fact that she “used to be a man,” AKA she is a transgender person. So we wrote a song which was inspired by Kate’s none-aggressive and compassionate way in which she dealt with the newspapers and her subsequent work in helping to create more understanding and acceptance about this subject. But a woman in the audience was peeved, and asked why we had chosen to sing a song about this particular woman, and transgender issues when there were more important “Women’s issues” that could be discussed, such as domestic abuse or femaleinequality. I couldn’t really understand her point. She seemed to be berating us for not singing about domestic abuse or women’s inequality, but I don’t see why she’d singled out the song about Kate Stone as a reason for contention. After all, if we had a song about domestic abuse or women’s inequality, then surely we could still sing that as well as the song about Kate Stone? I think her rant was clearly born out of being uncomfortable with and disapproving of the transgender subject, and she’d tried to justify her opinion with a badly cobbled together argument that she hoped would disguise her prejudices.

We started our set with a song called A Place Called England. But she didn’t have a problem with that, and didn’t ask us why we’d not sung a song entitled A Place Called Japan, or A Place Called Papua New Guinea. Or when we sing Billy Bragg’s Between The Wars, maybe we should extend the first verse beyond, “I was a miner, I was a docker, I was a railway man,” to list every other possible profession, which could feasibly take up the entire gig. But for some reason this lady didn’t seem bothered by any of that, but rather chose to focus her attention on our song about the media’s coverage of a transgender person.

I wonder whether she’ll complain to the gig organisers, like the woman in Australia who accused us of being sexist. I very much doubt it, as I’m sure that when she gets home, she’ll immediately fall into a drunken sleep, and when she wakes up she’d either have no recollection of the incident, or feel embarrassed by exhibiting her prejudices so passionately yet incongruously, or realise the ridiculousness of her complaint when she attempts to put it into words. But we have now received two complaints in a month. If you’re coming to see us on tour at all, prepare yourselves, we are clearly becoming more controversial, with our sexist anti-transphobic ways. In fact, I am so sexist against women, and equally vehemently anti-transphobic, that I want to suggest that all women become men, and thus wipe out the pointless and stupid female gender altogether. There, it’s controversial, but I’ve said it! I accept that, being heterosexual, I am cutting off my nose to spite my face, but at least that’s only a figurative nose being cut off an allegorical face, whereas you women will be forced to go through far worse with your actual literal genitals. And before the compliants start pouring in, I know that just because someone is physically female or male, it doesn’t mean that they will identify themselves with that gender, so my idea for eradicating the female gender doesn’t really work. OK, you’ve found me out, I was making a joke, albeit a joke that when held up to any scrutiny doesn’t really work.

Don’t worry, if you happen to be the drunken lady from London, be assured that I’ll redress the balance. I intend to spend tomorrow’s Dollop joking about domestic abuse, then on Sunday I’ll write a Dollop full of jokes about female inequality, before moving on to fill all my other Dollops with jokes centred around every different type of job I can think of, until the end of the year when this project ends.

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As regular Dollop listeners will know, during this tour I have frequently been recording from the toilet. This is not because I’ve got a weird fetish that involves people listening to me in toilets; or at least that’s not the only reason anyway. It’s often difficult to find a space where I can record in, away from other people.

Yesterday’s Dollop was an extra special treat for listeners as I recorded from two different toilets at the Bush Hall in London. The first bit was recorded in the main public disabled toilet. Don’t worry, the venue was closed to the public at that time, and so my Dollop recording wasn’t responsible for any bladder or bowel accidents, although I’m sure they would completely understand and in a way be happy that they had played a small part in the blog recording process, thanks to their nobel sacrifice.

Halfway through the recording, the venue doors opened, and people started filing in, so I relocated to our artist dressing room toilet. The public disabled toilet had a chair in it, but our artist toilet did not have a chair. There was also no lid on the toilet. I would either have to get a chair, or sit on the actual toilet seat. It was quite a walk from the public toilet to the artist one, and I didn’t really have time to take the chair out of the one toilet and transfer it to the other, or locate another chair. I would just have to sit on the toilet seat. I didn’t fancy the idea of sitting on the toilet seat with my trousers on, as the trousers would sag a bit when I sat down, and might come into contact with something. I therefore decided to sit on the toilet, as I would if I was using it for its more conventional purpose, producing dollops of a different kind.

So I sat on the toilet with my trousers around my ankles, and pulled my laptop onto my bare lap, and began to read and record. During the recording I got a bit hysterical and was struggling to stop myself from laughing, as I was suddenly hit by the sheer absurdity of what I was doing: sitting on a toilet, reading a fictitious tale about a crazy, obsessed elevator music composer.

The other reason I was laughing was because I realised that I was really desperate for the toilet, but I didn’t feel as if I could go, even though I was sitting on the toilet, and all I’d literally have to do is let go and wee. I was therefore a bit distracted when I was reading, as I considered whether I could get away with having a wee while reading the Dollop? Would anyone notice? If I timed it to coincide with one of the bits of dialogue where the lift music composer raises his voice, then maybe my voice would obscure the sound of the weeing. I also thought that maybe I could control the flow of wee, so that I could urinate in bursts, to coincide with the louder bits of dialogue. Whenever I raised my voice I could let out a bit of wee, and then curtail the flow when I reached a quieter passage. I was on stage in ten minutes, and really didn’t have time to stop the recording to go to the toilet, and I might not have time after the recording. Also my start and stop idea would have the extra bonus of exercise my pubococcygeus muscle, which apparently helps you to control and prolong the ejaculation process. So I’d be saving time and working on my sexual ability as well.

The only problem was that I didn’t know if the microphone would be able to still pick up the sound of me weeing. I didn’t know how metallic the bowl was and what noise the wee would make as it hit the bowl. If I aimed for the sides of the bowl rather than the middle it should have less of a direct impact and thus make less noise. The other problem was that it was becoming physically impossible to urinate, as I was finding the thought of this clandestine weeing ruse, and the idea of you all unknowingly listening to it, rather arousing, and I had biologically responded accordingly. Was that last bit a joke, or am I being honest? Did I decide to risk having a wee during the Dollop recording or not? You are welcome to listen and see if you can hear anything, and then listen again and again and again, you weirdoes. Did I exercise my pubococcygeus muscle or not? I will not divulge. But let’s just say the next girl who ends up in bed with me is in for a treat, as I provide her with at least two minutes of pleasure; although thirty seconds of that two minutes might be a few warm-up gags, by which I mean jokes, rather than bondage, although you never know.

Yesterday’s community event was a gig in London’s Healthy Living Club, for people with dementia. These afternoon things that we’re doing are for free, although I did get lots of kisses from old ladies, which, to be honest, is worth much more to me than money. They were only kisses on the cheek, but I’m in no position to be choosy, and I’ll take whatever I can get. Plus these ladies are from a different generation, where full-on passionate snogs are frowned upon on the first date. I am booked into a few solo gigs there later in the year though, so I’ll keep ploughing away. And I shall keep practising my pubococcygeus muscle exercises just in case. So all in all, I found yesterday to be highly arousing.

Sorry, I know this Dollop has maybe been a bit of a disturbing read. However, as it’s the ~Queen’s birthday, I thought it would be fitting to spend the majority of today’s Dollop talking about sitting on the thrown. Happy birthday mam (as in jam) if you’re reading, or perhaps you prefer to listen to the audio version, hoping to hear the sounds of me having a wee, you saucy devil you.

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The lift in our hotel in Cardiff has music playing in it. It’s not the radio or actual commercial music, but the kind of stuff that’s referred to as elevator music. I’ve not heard music in a lift for a long time. When I was a child I remember music in lifts, but nowadays it is rare that lifts have music. It seems a bit pointless. In most cases you are in the lift for no longer than thirty seconds. And a good amount of that time is punctuated by a voice announcing, “doors opening,” “doors closing,” “lift going up,” “first floor,” “second floor.” The music is only really audible for about ten seconds of your time in the lift. The music wasn’t particularly loud. It was only audible if there was no conversation going on. So really it does seem like a completely pointless feature.

I wonder who makes elevator music, and who created the piece of music that was playing barely audibly in the lifts of this particular hotel in Cardiff? Are they proud of their work? Maybe they deliberately bring their family to holiday at this specific hotel in order to impress them. Maybe he/she doesn’t tell their family beforehand, wanting it to be a nice surprise for them, relishing the look on their faces when the children realise that their parent is responsible for the music that is played on loop in the lift.

The family check into their hotel, and the dad (the lift music composer) is trembling slightly with the excitement. They will be so proud of him when they realise that he is the man behind the lift ambient music.

“OK everyone, to the lift,” he says, trying to sound nonchalant, not wanting to bely his excitement. He marches towards the lift, but then deliberately slows down his pace, realising that he’s in danger of losing the nonchalance. He turns his brisk walk into a casual stroll.

“Excuse me sir,” calls the receptionist, “your room is on this floor. There’s no need to take the lift.”

Damn, why hadn’t he checked which floor his room was on when he booked the hotel? Now he would have no reason to take the lift, as looking around he could see that all the hotel’s facilities – the pool, the gym, the restaurant and their room – were all located on the ground floor. Well that was it. The game was up. This entire holiday was a pointless waste. They’d travelled all the way from Edinburgh to come here. His wife had been furious with him. “Why have you booked a hotel in Cardiff, when there’s so many options closer to home that would be much less stressful to get to, and wouldn’t involve hours in the car with moaning restless children?” But he had tried to placate her by showing her all the things they could do once they got to their destination. Obviously it hadn’t been about that for him. All he wanted was for his wife and children to understand what he’d been doing with his life for the last two years.

His wife knew he was a composer, but she hadn’t seen much money come in, and had never been invited to see any of the works he’d composed being performed in any theatres or music halls. That was because he didn’t compose for the theatres or the music halls. That wasn’t his thing. He was a lift music composer, and proud of it.

He’d dreamed of being a lift music composer since he was a small boy. He remembered his career advisor and teachers at school laughing at him when he told them. “You might have to rethink your dreams a bit,” they told him. “I mean, I really don’t think you can make a living simply from composing music for lifts. You’d probably have to branch out into ambient music for shopping centres, airport lounges, hospital waiting rooms and the like too.” But he was adamant. He didn’t want his music to be played in hospital waiting areas, airport lounges or shopping centres. The music that he could hear buzzing around his febrile brain all day everyday was clearly music designed ultimately and exclusively for lifts. And one day he’d prove them all wrong.

Then one day, ten years ago, he met the love of his life. They started dating and he fell head over heels for her. He’d never ffelt this excited about anyone before. The only thing he’d ever cared about was his lift music. Then one day, six months into their courtship, he finally revealed to her his dream, that one day his music would be featured in a lift. And she laughed. She laughed! He had been crushed by her laugh, but he vowed to himself that one day he would prove her wrong and that she would hear his music played in a lift and she would be so overcome with emotion and love him all the more. He hadn’t quite imagined it would take another ten years for his dream to come true. He kept sending out demos to thotels, but he never heard anything back. He didn’t know how to go about advertising himself and his music. How did people get their music in lifts? He knew that it was possible, for he had heard music in lifts before. It always filled him with anger and loathing whenever he was in a lift and he heard lift music. It was never right. It lacked the spirit and the commitment that his music had. He could tell that it had merely been churned out half-heartedly by someone who was obviously not remotely interested in how it sounded. How could someone be awarded such a coveted and esteemed role, to compose music that would be played in a lift, and then waste the opportunity by producing this kind of nondescript, redundant bilge? It made him sick, it made him angry, but it also made him even more determined. One day, he kept telling himself, one day!

“I thought we’d go to the top floor and appreciate the view,” he said to the receptionist and to his family, who had wondered why their dad was marching to the lift, when their room was on the floor they were currently standing on.

“It’s been a long journey,” said his wife, exasperatedly. “Let’s go straight to our room and freshen up before heading off to the restaurant over there for something to eat.”

“There isn’t really a view to admire from in here sir,” explained the receptionist. “there are no windows in the corridors.
You’d get to see a really nice view if you went outside the hotel and walked up the steps.”

Steps?! Bloody steps?! Damn them all. He was starting to get fidgety. He didn’t give two hoots for the sodding view, he wanted to take the lift and show his wife and his children what he’d been painstakingly working on for the last two years. He wanted to vindicate himself to them, and demonstrate why he’d been so detached from them all for the last two years. He’d essentially kept himself cooped up in his studio, experimenting with musical ideas and perfecting his composition. He’d not made much money from that venture, but it wasn’t the money that was important to him. But of course his wife and children could never understand that. But if they only heard his music in that lift, then they would see, surely then they would see?

“Is there another restaurant to eat in on another floor by any chance,” he asked, praying that they would be.

“No sir, all the facilities are on your floor sir, so it’ll be really convenient for you, you won’t have to get the lift at all sir.”

Her words pierced him, and he had to fight to stop himself flying into a rage.

“Perfect,” said his wife, and started heading in the direction of their room, and the kids followed. But he just stood there. He couldn’t believe it. They’d travelled all this way, and for nothing.

His wife turned back to him and irritatedly enquired as to why he wasn’t following. He told her that he’d be with them soon, and to go ahead without him. His wife, reaching the end of her tether, having seen the man she’d once loved become more and more detached from her and the children, turned away and walked with the kids to the room, and disappeared inside.

He turned to the receptionist. “Would you do me a big favour,” he said to her.

“What’s that sir?”

“I need you to change our room to one on the top floor.”

The receptionist was nonplussed.

“Could you pretend that there’s something wrong with our room booking and that there’s been a mistake, and say that we have to move to a room on the top floor?”

The conversation went on for nearly half an hour. The receptionist explained that all the rooms were fully booked out on the top floor, and on all the other floors, and as there was actually nothing wrong with their room, there was no grounds for moving them. Eventually after much remonstrating, he resorted to bribing the receptionist to do his bidding, giving her all of his money that he’d earned from the lift composition work. All the money for two years work had just been spent bribing a receptionist, but the money wasn’t what was important here; he needed to get his wife and children in that lift so that they could hear his music and finally understand. And this was the only way of achieving that. The receptionist agreed to call the customers staying in one of the rooms on the top floor, and tell them that there’d been a mistake with their booking, and that they were actually meant to be staying in a room on the bottom floor, and then he and his wife and children could move to the room at the top floor. He thanked her profusely. He was so excited he nearly kissed her.

He hurried to his family room on the bottom floor and broke the news to them, trying to keep his excitement hidden. His wife was not particularly pleased, as she had literally just got undressed to get in the shower. But she put her clothes back on and she and the kids followed her husband out of their room and towards the lift. Fiannly!

The lift seemed to take an age to arrive. The kids were growing restless, and one of them started making for the stairs and shouted to his brother, “I’ll race you to the top.” His dad’s heart sank, as his children disappeared from view and began to run up the stairs. He tried shouting them back, but his wife told him to leave it, the exercise would be good for them. Damn! He’d wanted his children to share in this special moment, and to understand why their dad had been so distant and cold for the last two years. But at least he still had his wife with him. The moment wasn’t entirely ruined.

“Actually, I think I could do with the exercise too, plus it’ll beat standing here like a lemon waiting for the slowest lift in the world to grace us with its presence.” She began to make for the stairs. He grabbed her arm.

“No,” he shouted. His wife was stunned. It had come out more aggressively than he’d wanted. “Darling,” he added, a bit softer, hoping that that would help placate her. “The lift will be here soon.” His wife protested against his arm grabbing and aggressive shouting. Their children would be at the top floor now waiting for them. She began to head for the stairs again, but at that moment the lift arrived.

“The lift!” he cried, his voice an octave higher than usual. “Look darling, the lift!” She was still heading for the stairs. He ran towards her, and almost rugby tackled her, then grabbed her arm again, and dragged her, as nonchalantly as he could, into the lift. She was both flummoxed and fuming at this, and spent the first two floors berating him for his strange and aggressive behaviour. He wasn’t listening to her, for underneath her words he could hear the faint sound of music, music which he knew only too well, for it was his music, his composition, his pride and joy. This is the moment he’d been waiting for all his life, the moment that he’d been desperate to share with his wife, and she was just shouting over it, completely oblivious. Whenever he’d dreamt about this moment, it had always been romantic, beautiful and poignant. As his music played in the lift, he would softly and tenderly tell her and his children why he’d been so cold and detached all these years. He’d explain that he’d been busy in his studio all day, creating the very music that was emanating from this lift, music that he had fixated on and pawed over in immense detail, considering every nuance, every chord, every intricate melodic motif, to create the best possible lift music experience that he could. He would watch his wife and children’s faces glow with emotion, tears welling up in all their eyes, as they finally realised what kind of a man he was. And finally, they would understand him, and he’d feel at peace, at last.

But it was all going horribly wrong. They were now at the third floor of ten, and his wife’s barrage of words hadn’t abated. He made to press his hands to her lips to stop her noise, desperate to make her hear. This was driving him insane. But then the doors opened and two people got in. Excellent, he thought. He knew that his wife would be too embarrassed to shout at him now that there were others in the lift. He’d not counted on there being others in the lift. It wasn’t ideal. This was to be a hugely emotional and poignant moment for him, and he didn’t really want other people present. But then, on the plus side they were keeping his wife from shouting at him, so in a way he was glad of their intrusion.

“Doors closing,” said the lift. Damn, he’d not accounted for the fact that his beautiful music would be ruined by the sounds of an automated voice. It did nothing to add to the beauty of his creation. He made a mental note to ask the hotel if they could remove the automated voice from the lift, as it was getting in the way of the lift music listening experience. He’d mention it to the receptionist later that …

“Lift going up.” Bloody hell, there it was again. And that was a really good bit of the piece as well, a crucial part of the composition that tied the whole thing together , and it had been completely desecrated by that stupid voice. He’d definitely say something when he …

“Lovely day?” came a big, brash, confident sounding American voice. It was the man who had just entered the lift on the second floor.

“Yes, very nice,” replied his wife. He couldn’t believe it. His music was playing in their midst, and they had seemingly not been affected by it in the slightest. It was those bloody announcements. They had completely obscured his masterpiece and …

“So, how long are you staying for?” asked the man’s partner. There must be a volume control on this lift somewhere. He needed to discretely get the music louder. It was far too quiet. You could barely hear it above the announcements and the sound of the lift’s motor.

My goodness, I have written over 2500 words. As much as I am enjoying myself, we have unfortunately arrived at our gig in London. When I started writing this Dollop, I hadn’t intended to write a story about a harased and misunderstood lift music composer. I was merely intending to muse for a bit about how much a lift music composer gest paid, and whether they take pride in their compositions or just churn them out with scant regard for artistic merit. Do they bemoan the fact that there isn’t a lift music programme on BBC Radio 3, or that they never get asked to feature their creations at posh arts centre evenings? But I’m sure you’ll agree that my lift music composer drama has massively exceeded all your expectations.

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We walked onto the stage at Theatre Severn in Shrewsbury, and as the applause died down I could hear what sounded like a jet engine from behind us. I was momentarily thrown into panic. Had the last three weeks been a dream? Was I about to wake up and find myself back on that bloody plane heading back from Australia, and realise that I’d dreamt the last three weeks and still have another twenty hours of flying to go? Would I wake up and realise that I’m still only at Dollop … But surely not? The dream had gone on far too long for it to really be a dream. If it was a dream, there was no way that it could have lasted for this long without something weird happening like Michael turning into a chicken.

As we reached the front of the stage, the next thing I noticed was that there were plumes of smoke heading towards me. I could also see a big white light spreading out ahead of me. Had something gone wrong with the plane, and I was now being ushered from this earthly realm to the afterlife? But I couldn’t die yet, I still had so much to achieve. I hadn’t yet completed my 366 consecutive daily blogging challenge, nor had I succeeded in putting Hartlepool back on top of the teenage pregnancy league, nor had I yet taken the comedy world by storm with my award winning sell-out run of standup shows all about my kettle, which would then be turned into an OSCAR winning film. There were so many things still left to achieve. I couldn’t die yet.

But fortunately, the only thing that was dying was the applause from the Shrewsbury crowd. The blinding light and shrouding smoke remained, and the roar of the jet engine continued from behind me, and Sean began to speak. The gig was under way, and I hadn’t woken up on a gruellingly long plane journey, or found myself dead and heading for the afterlife. The first comment that Sean made was to observe our strange environment, and the fact that there was a jet engine like roar coming from behind us, a blinding light in our faces and a smoke machine pelting out smoke.

It was a bit weird having a smoke machine as part of the gig. We were trying to sing, but we kept swallowing the smoke, and our throats were getting drier than normal. At the interval we asked the tech people about the blinding lights, the smoke and the jet engine noise. Apparently the jet engine noise was being caused by the generators used to power the blinding lights. They informed us that they could turn it off, but that this would mean having to lose the big lights. They didn’t seem too keen on this idea, but it seemed like a no-brainer for us, after all, we’d lose the blinding lights and the jet engine to boot. They would still have plenty of lighting options, just not the one that resulted in blinding the performers. We also mentioned the smoke machine, butt the technicians seemed even more reluctant to turn this off than they had been about the jet engine inducing blinding lights, Apparently it added atmosphere, which might be jeopardised if there was no smoke. They didn’t seem convinced by our argument that we’d been gigging for ten years, and we’d seemed to have managed pretty fine without smoke in all that time, but perhaps they had a point. Maybe we’d have won the folk award a lot earlier if we’d have only had the foresight and the vision to have incorporated smoke into our gigs. But I got the feeling that the technicians had just been bought some new techy toys to play with by the venue, and we were spoiling there fun by asking them for a more minimal approach, and so we let them have their smoke machine.

Upon walking out onto the stage for the second half, the jet engine had gone, as had the blinding lights, and I think the three of us and the audience all felt much more relaxed and it was a really enjoyable second half. Although, in fairness, maybe none of it had much to do with us; maybe the amazing atmosphere was down to the techies and their smoke-based antics. Thanks lads. I think the techies really enjoyed our performance though. They didn’t tell us that themselves in words, but as we turned to leave the stage, they were blowing smoke up our arses.

At the gig I spoke to lots of people who listen or read these Dollops. No one shouted out “pissing dog-lady” or any other dollop-related heckles though. Either my Dollop listeners are just too refined and polite to shout out, or they want to keep me for themselves as their little secret, perhaps worrying that if I get too popular, I might sell out and start doing more mainstream jokes, ditching the groundbreaking stuff about kettles in favour of more proffetable subject matter. This would also explain why none of you are bothering to write my Wikipedia article. Although, actually, I got a comment from Chastity Payne, who hasn’t published the Wikipedia article yet, but has made a start. This is what she has written thus-far.

“David Eagle, Popular Flogger (that’s Folk Blogger) and self-styled Prince of Hartlepool charms folk audiences and podcast readers alike with gravelly-voiced bass vibrations.”

Even though she may end up publishing this on Wikipedia, I think she knows that it will be only a matter of seconds until it’s deleted by the editors. She has deliberately left out any factual detail and instead gone for jokes, knowing that it’ll never get passed the editors. Her hope is clearly that I will still view her as my favourite Dollop reader/listener for putting the effort in, yet she will still have managed to keep me a secret from the general public by deliberately writing an article that will immediately be removed. You are not fooling me, Chastity Payne, in fact I’d even go so far as to suggest that that’s not even your real name. You can’t fool me.

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As well as stories from on tour, hilarious anecdotes about domestic appliances, and campaigns to impregnate eighteen-year-old Hartlepool-based girls, David’s Daily Digital Dollop is also your portal for news relating to the Church Of The Flying Spaghetti Monster, a new brand of religion that is growing in popularity. This week saw the Church Of The Flying Spaghetti Monster conduct its first legally recognised wedding in the UK. The fact that the news articles state “first legally recognised wedding ceremony,” it suggests that the Church Of The Flying Spaghetti Monster have previously been carrying out none-legally recognised wedding ceremonies, and I wonder whether, now that they have got legal approval, they have abandoned the none-legally recognised option. I hope they haven’t. I think it would be quite fun to have a Church Of The Flying Spaghetti Monster wedding ceremony – the first one was onboard a pirate ship, which is much more fun than a church or registery office – without having to worry about actually being wed to anyone.

Also, I could maybe dupe some hapless girl into thinking that it’s a none-legally recognised wedding ceremony we’re having, when in fact it’s actually a real, legally valid marriage. I’d convince her that we should do the fake one for a bit of fun, and she’d agree in a spirit of joie de vivre, none-the-wiser to her true fate. I might try this on the next girl I fancy. If you blog readers could keep this to yourselves, as I don’t want word getting out and ruining my master plan. In return for your silence on this matter, I will reward you by podcasting the entire wedding ceremony; not the wedding night though, sorry Chloe.

I’d also appreciate it if you didn’t let on to Sean about the news that the Church Of The Flying Spaghetti Monster has started doing legally recognised weddings. He has already booked his wedding, and he would be massively disappointed to note that if he’d just held out a little longer, he could be having a Church Of The Flying Spaghetti Monster wedding ceremony onboard a pirate ship. I dare not tell him, lest he should cancel his already booked wedding ceremony. I really don’t want to have to go to another wedding fair and try and pretend I know about flowers and table decorations again; although, having said that, I imagine a Church Of The Flying Spaghetti Monster wedding fair would be a lot more exciting than a boring normal one. Presumably us lads would also go out on a spag party the night before. It would be much more fun. Damn Sean and his impulsiveness.

Fear not Young’uns Podcast fans, our two Sheffield gigs yesterday were really good and so I’ve got loads of material for you. For the afternoon gig, we invited some people from the Asylum seekers’ charity Assist to come and do a brief talk to the audience during our gig, and also to do a raffle to raise money for the charity. It was uplifting to note that the asylum seekers who came along to the gig were clearly enjoying the performance, properly belly-laughing at the jokes and having a good time. The principle point of them being there was so that they could speak about their experiences as asylum seekers and spread the word about the charity, but the fact that they stayed for the entirety of the gig and were laughing along and having a really good time with everyone else was really gratifying. It’s another visible reminder that we are all essentially just the same, only our circumstances are so vastly different. This small group of people had come to our gig, laughed heartily along and really enjoyed it, despite the fact that they had come from a place, unimaginably starker to ours, with the fear of having to go back looming over them. No, I’m not talking about the asylum seekers any more, I’m referring to the party of people who travelled to see us from Hull.

Might that be the cheapest and the most obvious and worst joke of David’s daily Digital Dollop thus-far? Sorry, but I felt that the Dollop was running a bit light on jokes, so I just shoehorned something in. In my defence, I’ve been up for quite awhile, haven’t had much sleep on this tour, and am currently in the van, desperate for the toilet and feeling very hungry, having had nothing to eat yet. We are heading to a school in Shrewsbury for our next community event, before we head to tonight’s gig, also in Shrewsbury.

We are pulling up to school now so I am going to have to leave this Dollop here. Perhaps I’ll have time to write a bit more and make this Dollop a little more interesting than it has been so far. Something might happen in the school that I can comment on, after all, children say the funniest things, apparently, although you’ll notice that none of the best comedians are under sixteen, so I’m not sure how much stock we can really put in that statement.

OK, just got back in the van after our school event, but sadly none of the children said anything amusing that would warrant inclusion in this Dollop. We give up our time for free and go into their school, and yet they can’t even give something back and come up with a joke for my blog, the ungrateful bastards. I had a conversation with one child who I thought had comic potential, but he just advised me to make a derogatory remark about Hull. But I told him I’d already resorted to that, and sadly he couldn’t come up with anything else.