Insults and Injuries

Sometimes I'm a bit too quick witted for my own good. At work the other day I was performing miracles at a table of two girls, two guys, after one spectacular feat one girl piped up 'Whoa! You're just like David Blaine!' My standard response to that has always been 'Yes, but shorter and with a less attractive girlfriend.' Now, it should be noted that I created this pat quip when I was single, cynical and possibly deeply unhappy. Realising the current implications for both me and my beloved, I decided to improvise on the fly and blurted out: 'Yes, but shorter and surrounded by less attractive women.' Needless to say they didn't leave a tip. However I don't always come out on top, a couple of weeks ago I walked up to a table, blew up a balloon and popped it to produced a full bottle of sparkling mineral water. The adults squealed in delight, until their six year old son, icy with contempt and purged of all christmas wonder, cut me down with the incredible line: 'you're embarrassing us, and you're embarrassing yourself. Now go away!' But, of course, I had nowhere to go.

Double Bodies

Yesterday en route to a gig and in desperate need of a prop I stepped into that last chance saloon of magical supplies, Davenports, the Dixon's of the magic world. As a final resort it's fine if you know what you want, if not you'll stand there for hours trying to avoid the constant stream of nervous wisecracks spouted by the acne-coated card-scarred socially-retarded teenlamer behind the counter. So anyway, with purchase in mind and alternatives exhausted, I trot along to join the queue of harry potter wannabes, lining up for their plastic thumbs and trick decks. As I'm burning valuable minutes from the oil lamp of my life I see a familiar face in the same predicament, Jez Rose, a magician I used to know back in the day. I haven't seen him for a while, but there is no question in my mind that this is him, he's got the looks, mannerisms, dress sense, even facial hair! He is Jez and Jez is he. So I say hello expecting to be welcomed back like a long lost and thought-to-be-roadkill puppy dog.

John: Jez!!
["Jez" looks quizzical]
"Jez": Jonas?
[ -beat- ]
John and "Jez": What?
John: No... I'm John.
"Jez": And I'm Jerry.
John: But, you look exactly like my friend Jez.
Jerry neé Jez: And you look exactly like my friend Jonas!
[very awkward pause]
Lameboy shop assistant [with exceptional smugness]: What are the chances of that? Two doubles, each with the derivatives of the other double's names, all connected by magic.
John and Jerry: Shut the duck up.

Too Personal Hygiene?

Am I the only guy to shampoo my... now how shall I put this... my ground floor carpeting? My monkey in pyjamas? My thermal winter winkle warmer? Am I on my own here? Oh and I don’t mean to be sexist, but I hope I’m talking mainly to the men and the feminists here if you get my meaning... basically people I'm not going to date. You know how it is, you’ve just washed your hair, you're waiting for the conditioner to set in, and you think, well… since I’m here… it is getting a little greasy down there... But you know what? I don't think I am on my own, there are obviously others, otherwise they wouldn't have that warning about avoiding contact with your eye. And guys, let me tell you, that is a very important warning! Do NOT get any of that shampoo near your little soldier! He may only have one eye, but he'll make up in brutality for what he lacks in numbers! You'll find out just why they suggest seeking medical attention, especially if it's menthol. But people, if you're dithering, it's worth taking that risk, because afterwards it is so much easier to style; a nice little side parting, curtains or a comb-over, you're in charge! I should really buy my own brush though, all those curly hairs are making my sister quite cross.

Bag Lady

I'm standing in the stairwell of a block of local council flats, trying to decipher the graffiti-strewn piss-streaked walls as I wait for a friend. An old woman puffs and pants her way around the corner carrying two huge bags the size of small children; and by the witch-like look of her they might quite possibly be small children. Would you like some help? I ask. No, she wheezes, I'm... doing... just... fine. She takes a pause, puts her bags down and breaks into a coughing fit. I look at her from 20 stairs up and hope no-one walks in to witness my dischivalry. I've just saved two lives, she says. I look again at the bags and try to think when the last time I saw Hansel and Gretel was. Really? I say. The ground fails to open. It's just something I do, she replies dismissively. I look at her again, trying to spot a cape on her back or pants over her tights; nope, she definitely doesn't look like the superhero type. There's nothing but dead air separating us now, I try to small talk: How did you do that then? She looks from side to side and decides to confide; Hot water bottles! She winks at me. I stand unmoved. I told two tramps about hot water bottles. Still she waits for my reaction. Seeing none she shakes her head, and as if explaining to a two year old says: 140 tramps have died in Poland from this wind! No hot water bottles! But if we get the word around, we might just save some of ours!! Just as I am about to ask how the homeless might fill and boil, nevermind purchase these kettles, the door opens and my friend arrives. He takes one look at the woman and decides to get the lift.

Cheap Frills

Every time I come into hospital they find some new way of humiliating me; whether it's medical students whose excitement rises in direct proportion to my sickness, or toilets with emergency cords instead of light pulls. However today they excel themselves. When I arrive they make me change into one of those hospital gowns. Now, for a start, why do they even call them gowns? A gown is a long flowing dress worn to a ball, an exquisitely tailored little black number designed to knock the socks off even sandal wearers. Hospital gowns however make you look like a chicken in a curtain, a llama in a marquee; if they gave you some pegs you could set up camp in one. Wearing nothing but clingfilm and a cape would be more attractive. Anyway, I didn't have a choice, so once I'd changed into this fashion monstrosity I'm then told to take off my boxer shorts. Now, I've been here before and this has never happened. I always keep them on, I whimper. Oh no! Not today! Apparently 'the powers that be' have decided that my pants may interfere catastrophically with the drugs they'll soon be administering. That's right, my PANTS!!! How exactly are my undergarments going to prevent a drug capable of knocking out a horse from taking effect? I suspect another motive. What exactly is going on when they turn out my lights? Is the surgeon using me as a glorified medical hand puppet while I'm asleep? Dancing and prancing me around like some pink Pinnochio, naked as the day I was born, just for the amusement of the student nurses? Hang on... Maybe that's why they call it 'going into theatre'?

Pitch Perfect

Think the A-Team but with fur; a show that brings together Skippy, Flipper, Gentle Ben and Lassie; Kangaroo with Bear, Dog with Dolphin! These guys are a team now! No more Han Solo! Together they solve crimes, rescue strangers, rub out the bad guys. Picture this: a guy robs a bank, steals a car, pushes a granny down a hole, whatever, and he's running away but! Lassie's chasing him, chasing him fast, look at him go! but oh! the robber gets in a boat and speeds away! look's like he's gonna escape! but wait! is that Flipper? Go Flipper Go! Now Flipper's on his tail, the chase continues by sea! meanwhile Skippy's roughing up an informer in the bush and Gentle Ben goes down the local swamp to put the squeeze on... I know! it's genius! but wait, there's more, here's the best bit: at the end of every episode there's some huge calamity, Lassie's in a corner, Flipper's gonna be fish food, things look real bad... until Gentle Ben sends out a message on his patented Animmunicator (®) A siren goes off! all four creatures come together, mightily Morphin' into one gigantic Evil Smiting Beast! Part bear/dog/dolphin/kangaroo!! A KangaBearDogoPhino! Power Rangers eat your cold metallic heart out! I agree, it's no Charlie and Lola, but it's still gonna be huge! The Fintastic Fur!

Food for Fraught

Last night I went hungry. Unable to sleep, and with a rumbly stomach, I got up to do some cooking. Now when I say 'cooking', I of course mean 'warming up'; reheating is about the limit of my culinary skills, and, to me, a three course dinner consists of boiling the kettle, turning the oven up and programming the microwave. So anyway I raided the freezer for a frozen ready meal, a chicken korma as it happens, pierced the film and put the plastic-covered ice block into the magical meal warmer. It was then that I got a very nasty shock. A misprint on the packaging resulted in the category B instructions being exactly identical to the Category E instructions!!! 4 minutes each! How can that ever be? Clearly there is a vast 150w of power difference between them! Something was quite obviously amiss. Being the resourceful, independent, sleep-deprived young man that I am, I decided the only course of action was to take this matter to the highest authority. And as we all know, there is no authority higher than the Sainsbury's Customer Careline! (Which as a bonus happens to be a freephone number!) So at 3.30am I dialed it up and spoke to a lovely woman called Joanna. She called up the details on her screen and sure enough was as flummoxed as I. Not to worry, she said, err on the side of caution, give it the full 4 minutes. Well, she sounded very reassuring, so I bid her goodnight and tapped in the digits. When the food came out, the plastic film had melted to the chicken, the tray was glued to the plate, and the curry was bubbling away like molten lava. I considered calling Joanna back and informing her of her erroneous judgement (and also possibly seeing if she was free Friday night), but fortunately my cat walked in and gave me a look of such withering contempt, that I hastily agreed to go to bed and grow up.

It Just Had To Happen

I love predictive text messaging; one of those gorgeous, exceptionally clever ideas where technology seems to be thinking for itself and outsmarting us. I'm sure if you added it up, it has saved me so much time, I'm a week younger. However it does also have a darker side. A couple of years ago, suffering quite bad stomach pains, I trotted along to the A&E of the local hospital with my girlfriend of the time Shema. The waiting times were, as ever, immense and eventually she decided to call it a day. In order to avoid the frankly terrifying walk home, my flatmate came over and picked her up, sending a text message to his girlfriend and letting her know the situation. Intending to tell her that John is in hospital so have taken Shema home, a rather unfortunate textual prediction on the final word led to the slight slip-up of a freudian nature: John is in hospital so have taken Shema good. Needless to say his girlfriend was not best pleased.

Domestics

Living at home is a nightmare. Why? Because my parents are just way way way too nice. My mother is an angel, my dad is incredible, and I am just an ungrateful little monkey. I feel sixteen again; all grunts and sighs and rolling eyes. Take for example a typical conversation with my mum:

       -What time did you get in?
       Half an hour ago.
       -Did you get my text last night?
       Yep.
       -You didn't reply.
       I forgot.
       -Where did you stay?
       At a friend's.
       -What are you doing?
       Watching TV.
       -What's on?
       Don't know.
       -Who's he?
       Not sure.
       -Are you going out later.
       Maybe.
       -When will you be back?
       Don't know.
       -Where are you going?
       Not sure.
       -Oh. Are you in for dinner tonight?
       I don't know.
       -What about tomorrow?
       Not sure yet.
       -aghghgh!!

So, guys, how can I ever thank you for keeping the roof above my head and the cupboard full of Frosted Wheats? I love you, really I do. I'm just terrible at showing it.

Stage Presence

It was the gap in the exit that provided his entrance, a crack in the fire door widened to an opening by blackened fingers, prising. He shuffled in, bags rustling, feet scraping, and, like the dust particles that catch no light, slipped by the doors unnoticed. In the bathroom he slid the bolt across to keep the world out and filled the sink with hot, soapy water. He drew a razor from his pocket and tore into the cardboard packaging, and in the stained glass mirror, under the bare reflection of the flouresence, began scraping the thick black hairs in long downward strokes, shedding clump after clump and blade after blade, occasionally pausing to tap the tinny plastic head against the porcelain bowl. Now finished he pulled the plug, letting the water swirl around his hands, and watching the foam and soap sucking and gurgling away, then, once emptied, he wiped his fingers around the shavings of hair beached on the sides and rinsed them a final time. He pulled off his coat, a weathered sodden beast that clung to him like a second skin, and from deep inside produced a pair of scissors that he wielded with the deftness and precision of the stoically repressed. He cut the locks of thick clotted hair that protruded in snake-like coils from his scalp, fighting against the roots, reshaping this bird nest of a head into small spiky tufts, groomed to perfection. He reached down and pulled apart one of the cheap plastic bags accompanying him. Inside was a tightly wrapped brown package that he slit open and emptied of the black material and soft sharp creases. A shirt followed, a tie and a pair of shoes, polished enough to see his soul in. He brushed his new being down, wiped smears of red from under his neck, tightened his tie and stepped from the door. The lights came up just as his clipped footsteps brought him to his mark, and in the glow of the stage he found himself.

The Hidden Depths of Jay-Z

On the Environment (U Don't Know)
I sell ice in the winter, I sell fire in hell
I'm a hustler baby, I'll sell water to a whale

On Animals (Justify My Thug)
Now if you shoot my dog, I'm-a kill yo' cat
Just the unwritten laws in rap

On Critical Acclaim (December 4th)
They say they never really miss you 'til you dead or you gone
So on that note I'm leavin after this song

On Revolutionary Leaders (Public Service Announcement)
I'm like Che Guevara with bling on, I'm complex

On Humility (Dirt Off Your Shoulder)
You're now tuned into the muh'f**kin greatest!!!

Many thanks to The Grey Album for introducing me to this latter day Keats.

Today I found my first grey hair

What more can I say?

Testy

I never know what to write on those pen tester things. Being a magician, stationary is one of my weaknesses, so I often find myself browsing through an all-nite pen store, trying out inks of various thicknesses and longevity, before secreting a few in a brown paper back to scribble and squeak with when I get home in the small hours. And I'm always confronted by the blank canvas of that tester sheet. Some people write their name, their address, or oddly enough, the store's name: Rymans, RYMANS, rymans, rYmAns. But I'm always tempted to put things like:

Ha! my name is, Ha! my name is, Ha! my name is, wiki wiki, john.

If you can read this writing you're shopping way too close.

For Sale: Pens. Lots of them. Look around you idiot!

Children's Stories

My best friend is a doctor, currently working in an A&E department in North London, let's call him Katie. So anyway, this couple walk in with their baby crying. The baby that is, not the couple; emotions would seem to be a little far-fetched for these two. He won't stop crying, they say. Katie picks up the baby, rocks him for two minutes and the baby goes as quiet as a mouse with a sore throat and no Strepsils. Yeah, they say, but watch. Taking the baby from his arms they dump his tiny body on a freezing table and stand back. Wait, they say. Sure enough moments later the baby starts crying. See! Cries all the time.

All You Can Eat

I live in a relatively suburban part of London; parks, trees, birds tweeting, that sort of thing. Very little of the all-night, all-day party-drugs and shootings scene surround us. It is with this in mind that you have to question the sanity of whoever it is that recently opened up a 24 hour bagel store. That's right. Bagels. 24 hours a day. I mean, petrol, sure, supermarkets, sure, kebabs even, sure, but bagels? You walk in it looks like any other sandwich bar you've ever seen, they even serve waffles as an alternative. But who wants bagels or waffles at 12.58am or 3.32pm or 4.31am? I give it two weeks, tops. Unless of course... it's a front for some drugs-smuggling/people-trafficking action. Then I'd give it three weeks. It reminds me of Chubby's on the Holloway road, a run down sandwich counter seemingly never open, but with a door in the back that was always slightly ajar, and if you walked past and looked from a certain angle, you could see it opened up onto this arcade for pensioners, full of fruit machines and space invaders and totally inhabited by senior citizens.

New Year's Evil

I'm at a bar without anyone. A drunken girl spits drunken slurs at me- I'm on TV y'know. I obviously don't pay the required homage as a few moments later she adds: A lot. I sip my water. Usher sang for me y'know. I blow cigar smoke into the air. And I'm a college lecturer. I repeat these statements to the people surrounding me with deep sarcasm, none of them seem anything other than impressed. I sigh and suck in more smoke; maybe that was slightly harsh of me but I'm not feeling too chipper. The girl asks whether she stands any chance, I shake my head and turn my back. The disenchanted get all the attention. I get introduced to a Mensa Model, a girl with a stunning figure to appparently match her IQ. How can you be a Mensa Model, I ask. I was featured in the bikini issue of the Mensa magazine, she replies. Tonight's getting way too strange for me. It is so easy to get absorbed into the spineless, into the rich and the meaningless. Earlier I've taken my friends out for dinner, a cool £350 for five of us, which the restuarant not only covered, but also threw another couple of hundred my way for doing a few card tricks. This put with the fifty I picked up in tips has made for a passable evening. You see, I don't earn real money. There is good money and there is bad money. Good money is sweated for, bled for by the hour, it is deserved. Bad money is thrown at you, passed in folded currency from handshake to clammy handshake and how softly it corrupts. Whoever said manual labour is good for the soul was right on the money.