The Friday Album Cover #9

After a long absence it's back! (For today anyway)

Let me tell you, after a prolonged period devoid of regular MSPaint-ing, your "skills" really start to wane. Of course, the caffine induced shakes could have something to do with that too.

I think I'd struggle to beat Michael J. Fox at Jenga.



So, here we go...



If we're honest, we're not expecting Ambassador Towers to be flooded with replies. We've been away a long time and it wouldn't be fair to expect all 4 readers to come back to a mostly inactive blog all that regularly.

Anyway, see what you make of it.

Clues available on request.

Handle With Care

Do you remember those schoolmates who excelled in academic, athletic and extra curricular pursuits? The ones who could try their hand at anything - from guitar playing to snake charming or brain surgery - and master it instantly. Yet somehow it seemed impossible to despise them because they were modest, charming and gracious.

Rhod Gilbert was probably such a child.

The following, is a perfectly crafted piece of material I had the pleasure of watching him perform some time ago. I haven't seen it since then (until today) - so it is included here as much for my benefit as that of anybody else. The idea is clever, his delivery and timing impeccable but, in my opinion, the most impressive aspect, is his understated use of a simple prop to augment the performance.

Enjoy.


Baggage Handler Complaint

Oh no, I've said too much

A post over at Fat Mammy Cat's fantabulous, award winning blog reminded me of this little story...

In April last year, I showed up for a gig determined to try out some new material I had written about a black man who had called to our door earlier in the week. Despite a self imposed rule that I would never post material here, for the sake of the story, here it is - pretty much word for word as told^*.

The other week, I answered the door to a black gentleman standing in the drive. Before I could say anything he said “Oh...I’m terribly sorry to disturb you, I’m looking for my friends. They live on this road but I've got the wrong house”.

"No problem", I said "it's two doors down" - and off he went.

It was only when I’d shut the door that I realised what I’d done. He hadn't told me who his friends were. He didn’t say he was looking for the Conolly’s. I just assumed he was looking for the family of Kenyans who live 2 doors down from us.

I may as well have said “On this street we like to keep our black people in this house”. You wouldn't make that assumption with anybody else. If a woman with a tight haircut, wearing dungarees called to the door you wouldn’t say “Ahh you’ll want the lesbians… number 69”.

I think the only thing that made it event mildly acceptable was that for as much as I foolishly assumed he was looking for the Kenyan family down the road – he assumed I was right.

I like to think he walked away thinking “Well that could be construed as slightly racist…. but I suppose we do tend to keep to ourselves.”

Invariably before trying new material an internal battle of wills is waged between a desire to see if it works and a desire to avoid dying on my arse if at all possible. Without fail, I walk out the door knowing exactly where the new stuff will appear in the set, only to arrive at the venue and decide the situation merits reassessment.

It is not uncommon for me to have serious doubts about the material but on this occasion my concerns were not related to its quality or strength. Instead I was worried some people might find it offensive. I like to think my material and style of delivery are fairly affable and I didn't think this piece was any different - but you never know how sensitive some people will be.

There were only a few people there when I arrived -one of whom was a black lady sitting just to the right of the stage. Between the usual pre gig jitters and my concerns about the new story, I balked completely at the idea of including it in the set.

"But its not racist" I told myself, "it should be ok".

Just to be sure, I called the CPF who had read it over my shoulder^** as I was typing it up.

"You know the stuff about the guy at the door this week? Well there's a black lady in the audience. I can still do it can't I?"

"Of course you can", she said. "Its not racist - you're making fun of yourself, not him".

Still racked with doubt, I rang GW (who knows about such things), told him the story, explained the situation and asked if he thought it ok.

"Yeah - you're taking the piss out of yourself. It's fine".

So, with my mind put at rest by the reassurances of the 2 people I trust most, I decided to give it a go. I started my set with 5 minutes of reliable, tried and tested material which almost always lifts the roof. It settled the nerves: I had proven that I could do funny and the audience knew I could make them laugh. A perfect opportunity to slip in the new story - if it didn't turn out as rib ticking as I had hoped, they would give me the benefit of the doubt on the basis of the strong start and I could close out with another strong 5 minutes to end on a high.

Well that was the plan.

As soon as I said the words "black gentleman" the audience, almost as a single person, leaned forward, gasped audibly and focused, with gaping gazes, on the black lady to my right. Some looked to their companions with horrified expressions that screamed "Can he not see her? Does he not know she's there?". I could see everybody mentally preparing themselves to be outraged on her behalf when I delivered what they clearly assumed was some horrendously racist joke.

"No problem", I thought, "its not racist or offensive it will be fine". But 5 seconds later the realisation dawned on me: "you know its not racist, CPF knows its not racist, GW knows its not racist.... but these people don't know its not racist".

It made no difference now, I was like Magnus Magnusson. I had started so I had to finish. I couldn't abandon a story I had just started without it delivering a single laugh. I had to continue... so I did.

I soldiered on through the story - with an audience alternating their unsmiling, dumbfounded stares between me and the black lady. The only person laughing - during the new story and an excruciating closing 5 minutes - was the black lady.

She thought it was hilarious.

(I used the same material the following night and on numerous occasions since and it is always received very well. Some nights are just strange).

^*It's funnier than it reads - honest.

^**She didn't laugh. She never does. It seems to be a good indicator that it will work in a gig.

Born under a bad sign with a blue moon in your eyes..

With the trial of Brendan McFarlane receiving a great deal of media coverage over the last couple of days there have been numerous radio and television reports referring to "Don Tidey".

Each time I catch one of these reports it conjures up a tremendous image of an aged Mafia boss with mild OCD, resplendent in a sharp Italian suit complete with spats, fedora and long white scarf, pottering around his secure compound straightening table cloths, fastidiously aligning bookshelf contents, running a be-gloved finger along cases containing Tommy Guns checking for dust and meticulously stacking, then re-stacking bundles of cash inside a brief case.

Just me then?

Wherever I lay my hat, that's my home

Monkeys! I am currently working for a client who seem to subscribe to the Infinite Monkey Theorem. It is the only plausible explanation behind their recruitment policy. I could, had I the time or inclination, catalog all the stopping, the starting, the hmmmm-ing, the haw-ing and the back-to-the-drawing-board-ing that has been the bane of my very existence for the past number of weeks. Instead, I will sum the whole experience, the whole organisation, their very ethos up in the following 10 words...

Left hand, I'd like to introduce you to right hand

But I digress...

I had the misfortune to catch the last few minutes of Miss Universe Ireland on TV3 on Sunday evening. I despise beauty contests, all that they stand for, all that they represent and the shallow, skin deep lessons they impress on people too young or immature to know better. How many young girls, having watched a parade of peroxide blondes talk about how they wanted to use their breasts to help orphaned children in Africa (I don't know - I said I only caught the last few minutes) are now convinced that aspiring to be pretty and wear a long flowing designer dress are worthwhile, substantial aspirations?

I doubt I have ever witnessed such a vapid, soulless display of style over substance - and that was just Alan Hughes.

The winner received, among other things, a luxury apartment in CityWest. I wonder if it was the one Katie French used to live in?

You're My Best Friend

I have, on a number of occasions, referred to the CPF - the close personal friend.

Well, no more!


It is now the close personal fiancée.



Here in separate sections, tailored specifically for men and women, I will attempt to answer any questions you might have in advance.

For the women:
When did you propose?
Tuesday afternoon last week.

Where did you propose?
In Venice - a stunningly beautiful, if slightly expensive, city.

Did you have the ring?
Did I what? Not a chance - I might know what an empire line is but there is no way I would be brave enough to pick an engagement ring. We will go shopping at the weekend.

How did you do propose?
In italian. Ti amo. Mi vuoi Sposare. (Thanks to R, the Italian). I don't speak any Italian so I may have butchered the pronunciation and actually asked if she would like to be a cabbage. Either way the CPF replied with a resounding "Si, Si Si".

I shied from the grand public gesture as I thought we would both be too shy and self conscious. Plus I figured there would probably be tears. There were. Mostly mine! Instead I asked her on the private roof top balcony of our hotel room, overlooking a quiet square (Campo San Zaccaria) and a beautiful Gothic church.

Did you go down on one knee?
Two actually - the CPF was sitting on a rocking chair on the balcony. I knelt at her feet, told her how much she means to me, how I want to wake up beside her every morning and popped the question.

Did you ask her father?
Yes - finally. We don't see each other too often and when we do it always seems as if the world and its mother are also in attendance. They day before we left for Venice was spent frantically trying to get in touch with my future father-in-law who was playing golf and had his phone turned off.

I had to resort to the "I need to work late" excuse in order to head out to meet him. The irony of me using the classic extra marital affair cover story when asking my FFIL for his daughter's hand in marriage was not lost on him - I promised it would be the last time I will ever use it.

Have you set a date?
Not yet - we have an idea of when we would like to get married but there is a lot to be organised yet.

Will it be a big wedding?
Definitely not. No bigger than 25 people. There will be no real reception as such, instead we will go for a meal somewhere and then for a few drinks.

Do you know who your best man/bridesmaids will be?
Yes - the CPF's very best friend will be bridesmaid and GW will be best man (so we can sell the photos to Hello magazine).

And the honeymoon?
No idea yet.




and for the guys:
Married? Is she pregnant?
No.

Going the pub for the cup final on Saturday?
Absolutely.

The Friday Album Cover #8 (Side B)

So, I did mention it might prove a little obscure. Here is the actual album cover....



It's 'The Cat Empire' - the debut album from the Aussie jazz/ska/funk/rock combo of the same name.

Check 'em out on YouTube - particularly 'Sly', 'The Car Song', 'Days Like These', 'The Rhythm' and 'Hello'.

As you may have guessed, I'm a big fan of these guys.