Adamland

An eight week idiot's guide on how to be a Prepper.

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Thu, 12 May 2016 09:23:00 +0000

Week one

You don’t even know it’s started, but it has. You’re in bed having a final look at the day then you see the link, ‘Are you ready for the coming financial collapse?’ “Well I’m not sure… perhaps I should click…holy shit! The banks run out of money? Marshal law! Sifting through bins for food… Really?” You mention it to your wife. She rolls her eyes. ‘It happened in Greece!’ you say, in a high-pitched voice that suggests you’re anything but prepared. She rolls over “idiot” sighs out of her mouth. Undeterred you stay up and watch a documentary about the Great Depression. You know, just to get a feel for what it would be like. It turns out the Great Depression, was quite the doozy.

Week two

You start slow, buying a few extra tins at Lidl. You don’t tell anyone, especially the kids, they’ll give away your position.

Week three

Did someone order a cupboard full of beans? Padlocked of course, you’re not stupid.

Week four

You go for walks under the cover of darkness, heading to the local ATM, where after making sure no one has followed you, you withdraw as much cash as allowed. When you get back home you stick this money in envelopes and hide it in the walls of your house, plastering over each stash for safe measure.

Week five

The plaster won’t dry and your marriage is barley hanging on. You try and make jokes like ‘There’s plenty of money in the Banana Stand’ but your wife has never seen Arrested Development and doesn’t get the reference. Nope, she just thinks you’re a fucking psycho.

Week six

You find yourself heading down to the river to feed the ducks. ‘Finally, he’s stopped being weird.’ Have you? Or are you secretly befriending the ducks making them trust you so when the day comes, they waddle right up to the pan thinking ‘he’s a nice guy always gives us… BAM’. Two, three, if you’re quick four, dead ducks right in your duck sack. Plus you’ve been squirreling away the odd bottle of Hoisin. ‘What’s that Wifey? I’m crazy? Yeah crazy like a fox who dragged in some quack quack’s for din dins.’

Week seven

She’s gone. As have the children. They all left the same day you started wearing camouflage pants around the house. Or was it when you ordered the high-powered slingshot? It doesn’t matter, you have enough tins to get through this little hiccup. Oh yes you do…

Week eight

It does not look like she’s coming back which might not be a bad thing as the blood on your gums suggests, you’ve got scurvy. You have no electricity and that solar powered generator you spent all your money on, won’t work in a climate where there’s no fucking sun! On a sour note, you can’t locate your cash. Don’t be put off. Keep punching, you’ll find it.

Memoirs of an Australian legend.

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Fri, 06 May 2016 11:03:00 +0000

My brother is an uncouth, breath of fresh air, salt of the earth Aussie legend. I Skyped mum the other day and asked where he was, ‘He’s out on the kayak catching squid.’ What a life. The sun’s setting and he’s yanking in calamari. But his fearless attitude towards sharks isn’t what makes him great. What’s brilliant about Nathan is his ability to back himself.

His mate was set to turf an old barbecue onto the street when out it popped, ‘you could get a carton of beer for that.’ There it was, the birth of an idea. Within hours Swap4beer.com was delivered, phone calls were made and investors were celebrating. Laconic genius at its finest, you swap unwanted items for beer. It hits the heart of every Australian. You get to de-clutter your life and are rewarded with beer. Your wife’s happy and you’re loaded. Nathan made it happen. He got it to the point where swap4beer made it on to Good Morning Australia. THE BIGGEST MORNING SHOW IN OZ INTERVIEWING MY BROTHER! ‘Look out Zuckerberg, Karl Stefanovic’s making jokes about barbecues and beer and Australia loves it. Well they did until they went to the unfinished website and were put off, and then he had to deal with the liquor licensing laws and whilst it’s all kosher now and the websites working, the idea has lost a bit of heat. Yet he’s had a crack, learnt from his mistakes and it could still take off. I mean you swap things for beer for Christ's sake, how could it not? Or does it matter?

Who could forget the time he convinced himself that somewhere in the porn industry stood a man or woman who would soon make the connection between Memoirs of a Geisha, and the new fad that involved squirting. This lead to the hurried purchase of the domain name memoirsofagusher.com. How do you make money from this? Imagine: they wrap the final scene, someone’s mopping up, everyone’s happy when in storms the PR man ‘Someone else owns Memoirsofagusher.com and they want a million dollars?’ You laugh maybe even scoff but part of you wonders would they pay up? I mean they’ve gone to all of the trouble to hire a gusher. I imagine they don’t come cheap (oh yes I did) so to throw it all away.... surely not? He’s yet to see a penny but you never know. The laughs have been worth it.

His latest is a doozy. He Skypes me, ‘I want to write the shitest book ever.’ Get in line I said. ‘No you don’t get it, it’s a book filled with stories about people taking their worst shits.’ There’s a market for that? ‘Come on mate, we’ve all got a funny shit story.’ I laughed not just at the idea but at the fact that he will do it, he will post off to publishers a book with the title The Shitest Book Ever and they’ll probably laugh and you never know… That’s what my brother has taught me, you have to back your ideas because no matter how shit they are, you just never know.

Going Mad

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Thu, 28 Apr 2016 08:14:00 +0000

When I was a kid my dad would tell us to hop in the car and we’d be off. No questions asked except for ‘Where are we going Dad?’ Often he’d tell us ‘We’re going mad’. This was of course his little joke, made only to himself, one you’d need to make whilst bundling four kids into an airconditionless Ford shit box. Dad may have been behind the steering wheel but we were the ones driving him ‘mad’. What didn’t help his cause was four bored kids believing whole heartedly that we were indeed going to a place called Mad. We didn’t know where Mad was but we were ready to find out. We’d even practice our mad faces so we’d fit right in when we got there. We fell for the trip to Mad on many occasions but not once did we get even close to its gates, gates that we assumed were designed with fury and anger and gargoyles. Surely there’d be gargoyles? No. We’d always arrive with fading glee to some brown building that sold carpet or light fittings or linoleum. Buildings frequented by decaying men in beige suits, total fun vacuums whose only excitement came in the form of coughing blood onto a hanky because that meant it was nearly over. Ironically us kids would be, you guessed it, mad. Dad was again right all along but for all the wrong reasons. Countless Saturdays were ruined by trips like these. Yet for the brief times where we were buckled up and believing that Mad was a real and unexplored land, the times where we looked out the car windows with a sense of wonder about our upcoming adventures into the unknown, those times were brilliant. Nowadays I have to spend a lot of money to get those feelings back.

Is there a point to this one? If there is it’s this; lie to your children. Lie to them but make the lies small so they can do the rest. As for the disappointment that may follow? Well you’d be mad not to teach them how to deal with that one.

I'll never be angry again.

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Mon, 25 Apr 2016 11:26:00 +0000

A big part of me has always wanted to be a monk. They impress me. Tibetan monks especially. They are my monk of choice. Unless I’m in a street fight then I go Shoalin. Give me a 14 year old Shaolin with a bit of bamboo in his hands and I give you a safe passage home. It’s the Tibetan monks though, they’re just so calm and gracious. Some of these guys have been imprisoned, tortured, given all kinds of burns, most of them Chinese, and upon release what do the monks feel towards their captors? Compassion, love and hope. Hope that their angry little Chinese buddies will change. It’s commendable and I look up to it. I’d kill to learn that kind of compassion.

If I burn my hot cross bun I lose my shit. I’ll throw tea towels, I’ll yell, I’ll kick the bottom of a cupboard whilst lashing at the universe with a wooden spoon. A psychologist may be reading this thinking, ‘well that isn’t about the hot cross bun. That behaviour involves something far deeper than the hot-cross bun.’ Well my overly paid and rarely useful friend, I’m here to tell you, that behaviour is all about the hot-cross bun. More precisely it’s about the sultanas within the hot-cross bun. Can those things retain heat or what?! You try and save your burning hot-cross bun and your heroism costs you a scolded index finger and a decent spell under the cold tap. We’re all spending thousands of pounds on insulation but I’m telling you people, put three sultanas up there, four minutes in the microwave and you’re good for winter.

Would a monk think of that? Doubt it.

Winter’s the problem though isn’t it? Santa has left the building, the decorations are down and we’re all two dull days away from yelling at the innocent. When’s the next festive escape? Easter, which isn’t for months and as mentioned, comes with it’s own set of issues. If I were a monk three months living under a grey blanket would be a breeze. It’s level one monk. Well I’m taking a leaf out of their book. They may not be getting full value from their sultanas but their ability to not get phased is the new cool and for once in my life I don’t want to miss out. I only heard about Nirvana when Kurt Cobain shot himself in the head. Not this time cool gang. I’m here. I know where you live. I’ve made plenty of grand statements in my time and a lot of people think I’m full of shit, and they are right, but mark my words. I will become the calmest person in my county. I will become the full monk. And if not, I will dance nude across the farms of Bedfordshire punching cows in the face.

Ego

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Mon, 16 Dec 2013 20:37:00 +0000

If you define success by having your son cry as you leave to do an open mic gig then I have nothing left to achieve. He was in tears as I entered the lounge room to say good bye. We had just been wrestling, which is our new thing. He jumps on me, threatens my sternum, I tackle him to the ground trying not to wince and we repeat for about two hours. He wasn’t expecting this next move. The phantom elbow that is the absent father. ‘Sorry son Dad has to try out his new joke that he wrote in the shower.’ As my ego is my prison of choice I leave the weeping ball of wonder and light, make my way to the train and head on in to North London to give it some quality posture.
The gig was a poorly run open mic night which I hoped would surprise me. As a rule I love open mic nights, I love the successes, I adore the failures and I respect the courage. You do have to be strong. My favourite part of this night was being introduced, ‘The headliner is great so stick around but can the three remaining acts stick to time as it’s getting late. Anyway the next act is (he glances at a list)... Adam (he looks hard at the sheet) Vincent, Adam Vincent... please Adam Keep it short (he said that on the mic before saying off mic yet loud enough for all to hear) Really keep it short.’ Wow! Where was that pep talk at the start of the night? What a prick. My mind remembers my son crying at the doorstep, a lump begins to appear in my throat which is only defeated by a rage that I do my best to channel into my material. The joke, the very reason I made the trip was lost in a vacant anger. I had a paid professionally run gig the next night, why not try the new line then? Ego.

The Last Dance

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Tue, 20 Nov 2012 21:36:00 +0000

Working in Aged Care is like being a doorman at a really unpopular but always pumping nightclub. The music sucks, the toilets stink, drugs are rife and everyone is hard of hearing. The great exception is when it’s time for people to go home you don’t kick them out you hold their hand. I was never good at this part.

When I lost my first friend his last words to me were, ‘Can you stop doing that? It’s annoying.’ There’s a bad day at the office. ‘What did you get up to today honey?’ I pissed off a guy who was being eaten alive by cancer. And you? I was young and didn’t know about the simplicity of holding a hand. Instead I chose to rub his leg until the lump in my throat cut off my oxygen supply. I nearly passed out on his colostomy bag. The first rule of being an Aged Care doorman; don’t pass out on a colostomy bag. I’ve also gone the other way and tried to feel nothing. I once had the audacity to wonder out loud what kind of chocolates the family would bring me as a reward for my efforts. There’s some witty office banter. ‘I hope I get a novelty sized Toblerone. Kevin was nothing short of hard work.’ Can you smell the humility? This bullshit bravado acts as a shield for a while but has a tendency to fall apart, usually when you least expect it. For me it was when I was buying toothpaste. ‘Check out that guy, he’s crying over Colgate, what a weirdo.’ Did Kevin ever stab you in the head with a toothbrush? No! You weren’t there man! Now can I have aisle three to myself for a while please?’ The truth is it’s not their demise that hurts but the reality of your own.

No one ever really thinks about their last dance. The egotistical amongst us speculate about our final words like they may provide the world with some deep meaning. ‘And then she said ‘caterpillar’ and it all made sense.’ Really? Unless your final hard fought mutterings come with a movie, your rosebud moment will get caught up in the bag they wrap you in. And the planning of anything beyond your life is nice and sweet like the biscuits you want people to eat when they chat about who you were as a person, but it won’t help you when the moment arrives. What moment? I don’t know. I’ve never been there. But here is a brief description of a good one.

He outlived two world wars and the countless others they put on to prevent the third. He started with a horse and cart and saw humanity park it on the moon. He was humble, funny and light. He had the strength to refuse his pills and I liked that. He loved his tea but he didn’t want his dinner and I liked that too. I knew what he wanted and he was getting it. The cheeky smile became focussed and then he turned away from his favourite drink. His feet got cold, his eyes rolled back and his family came in. I held his hand. That night he danced his final dance to his own beat and from all accounts his return home was beautiful.

The next day I was thrilled and had to explain to Lady Wife that I picked it. I called the family in at the right time. ‘You see sometimes you call them in and they don’t die for a week. It’s embarrassing.’ Unless you work in the field you’ll never really appreciate that conversation. As a Doorman I was happy that it all went well and I hadn’t been affected, but then I turned on the news and realised that the indescribable moment that you have to live through to die well has a lot to do with luck.

Not angry just really disappointed.

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Tue, 06 Nov 2012 15:43:00 +0000

I used to work as a disability carer because for a while there I was all heart and no education. I enjoyed my time and met a lot of inspiring people & a few annoying ones. On the positive, I once saw a lady with one arm and no legs pull herself out of bed, slide into a wheel chair, roll into the kitchen and make herself toast with jam. My first thought was ‘She’s doing her own condiments, I might be out of a job here.’ We’re talking lids, knives, undoing that plastic bread clip. It was an impressive display of chin work. My second thought was, ‘Why isn’t this woman running the country? Clearly she’s a problem solver.’ Initially it was a wise crack for my mind only, but now I’m certain it will be asked en mass by those of us tired by the current heightened state of affairs.

We seem intent on getting tall able-bodied men to lead us, somehow believing height equals intelligence and strength. Every time it’s a tall guy sprouting the same rubbish. He gets ousted and we get another tall guy. I’m six foot three and I’m telling you, it’s bullshit, we’re morons. I’m basing that on no scientific evidence. Why? I’m a tall moron and that’s what we do. But as a tall man I will suggest that we put our prejudices aside and start allowing space for the more oddly shaped movers and shakers of the world, because they’d make fine leaders.

First up, Minister for Communication: Someone with a heavy dose of cerebral palsy. I’ve met several folks with this condition and they’ve all been as smart as a whip. Talking to them is a pleasure as when you finally understand what they’re saying you realise it’s never rubbish. Every word counts. And wouldn’t we love to see journalists (I use that word like they still exist) have to pause and listen before realising they’re being told to bugger off.

I’d like to see a legless man run finances. When your economy has no legs who better to run it? Actually anyone who can survive and prosper on a disability pension would be more than qualified for the position.

Minister for Policing: Someone with just enough autism to get the job done. I once had to help out a young man who was on the spectrum and wheel chair bound. Nothing got past this guy. You don’t know guilt until someone wheels up to you and says, ‘Adam, I know you steal biscuits.’ How did he know? The pantry door was shut! There was no noisy wrapping. I chewed with my mouth closed & covered it with a scarf. I was muffled! ‘I’m not angry I’m just really disappointed.’ As he wheeled himself out of the kitchen with his head shaking from side to side, I genuinely wanted to call my mum. There’d be no sweeping corruption under the carpet with this guy in your cabinet.

I’d like to see the Minister for Defence be someone who has stepped on a landmine and survived. Our troops might not be sent to troubled zones if the person doing the sending is at least experiencing phantom pain.

The big job: I’d like to see a party leader who appreciates freedom, demonstrates compassion, someone who knows how to overcome adversity, a person who takes what they’re given and makes the most of it. Now I’m sure many people qualify for this position but I want the person most qualified and even a moron knows, they are probably not tall.

Memory is a funny thing.

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Mon, 29 Oct 2012 11:21:00 +0000

I was reminded last night by the very funny Robert White that back in '04 I did a gig holding a pool cue and waving it around at the out of control audience who, if my memory serves me correctly, didn't know comedy was on and didn't like that I was blocking the view of the cigarette machine. I vaguely remember grabbing the pool cue and shaking it whilst doing my gags because I was legitimately scared. Who knows maybe I thought the night needed it. I needed it.
The gig was so poorly promoted & run that, in hindsight, this made it the funniest aspect of the night. The humour of which must have only be appreciated on the train home. Surely? I even remember hearing later that the headliner decided not to get up as the gig was such a shambles. It was no lights, no microphone bad. I like to think that the headliner was Lewis Schaffer but it may not have been. It's cooler if it was. It's all very vague. What I didn't remember, because up until last night I didn't know, was that the gig was held at a BNP pub! Robert, who has aspergers and a memory for these things, suggests the gig may have been a lot worse and more dangerous than my memory lets me believe. How did this conversation come about? After not seeing each other for 8 years we met at a gig & had that moment of recognition before Robert smiled and said, 'Pool Cue.' What I like about this story is that my memory of Robert involves a gig in Crouch End where afterwards, we were both standing by the side of the road watching an old man drive his car up a hill completely unaware that one tyre was missing and sparks were showering the traffic behind. The poor guy kept driving with two hands on the wheel, eyes forward, wonderfully oblivious to the lack of tyre and the fact that his night time visual would be trumped by an obscured cigarette machine.

Resurrection in the park.

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Tue, 23 Oct 2012 08:17:00 +0000

I tell Boy Son that they’re simply called “Trees” knowing that greater men have walked this path and reeled off names like Almus Hybrid and Snowdrop and Flatspine Prickly*. I bet they had excellent posture and puffed on pipes whilst quoting Kipling. The leaves however, they’re just leaves & I take comfort in knowing that any man who deviated from this easiest of descriptions must’ve been an absolute wibberwasher**. We push on. The yelling and thrilling of molly coddled children plays softly in the foreground as my boots squelch to the rhythm of avoiding puddles. I’m the forgotten warrior of the park, the man whose DNA once punched out a Yak but I’ve boiled down to sipping lattes whilst side stepping my own reflection. My DNA’s latest resurrection is having none of this and decides to chant at the nameless trees, throwing dirt into their face before running around each one, three times apiece. I secretly hope this crowd gathering ritual will unlock a tree Genie who’s been waiting for this exact pattern to unfold. ‘Finally I’m free! Thank you little boy. I thought the spell was broken last week but the little fucker only ran around twice… Not to worry, I’m yours forever. Lets grab dad and head to India. I’ve got a score to settle. To the spices!’ I squinted my eyes and crossed my fingers, hoping against hope that the oncoming floppy eared fuzz ball was in fact Mr Tree Genie himself. This was stupid and I had to unpack my mind bags. India would have to wait. Embarrassingly the futility of my squinting was highlighted by the sound of steamed up piss falling on my pram. But oh how we all laughed… ‘The dog pissed on the man’s pram… the inappropriateness of it all, that’s what makes it so amusing. Wibber, wibber wibber.’ I shot them all with my mind vibes and they vaporised into the kind of dust that only gathers onto broken dreams. Suckers. I sipped my latte and pushed on.

Boy Son opened the gate and stood mesmerised as fragments of the future ran around shooting each other with sticks. I laughed at the realities of playground war; A twenty second ban if you’re wounded, thirty if you die, forty if you die near family. These rules played underneath a far more depressing conversation, ‘Darling not too close to the edge you might fall.’ My parents would introduce me to the weekend by firing me out of a cannon with half an apple and a slap on the arse yet still, I’m a pale reflection of a Yak Puncher. Today’s darlings are shot well before they can strap on their boots.

Up he climbed and down he slid for long enough so that I might be considered a decent father. It’s 12 parts love and adoration, 3 parts stifling boredom and 6 parts hiding the 3 parts. Today I did it well. Tomorrow I don’t know? He may want details.

*Derived solely from Google; may not be the trees in my park.

** Wibberwashers are jowly grown ups possessing no sense of humour and often they sound like overly serious washing machines.

So let me tell you about my week…

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Wed, 17 Oct 2012 07:54:00 +0000

Context: When your wife is pregnant, as mine recently was, you lose testosterone so that you don’t beat her*. This may be controversial and I have no science to back it up but I have mentioned it at barbecues and it seems to hold up around salad. My testosterone is now bouncing back. But due to Lady Wife’s unfortunate C Section I’m house bound until she is strong enough to lift more than a baby. Also, to add spice, I’ve spent the last 9 months trying to find the perfect segue between what my wife is talking about and convincing her to touch my penis.

I’m walking up the road on my way to buy cupcakes and my inner monologue is furious. ‘Cupcakes! Cupcakes! I must be the only inner monologue bitching about cupcakes. ’ And so it went. Meanwhile Lady Wife was talking about curtains. Not meanwhile back at home meanwhile, but rather, meanwhile by my side meanwhile. In context to banter about curtains, this is the worst kind of meanwhile. (Curtains. Curtain rod. Emphasise rod and then look at your penis. Avoid eye roll. Repeat.) The cherry: I’m pushing a pram with two kids in it. The kids are mine, they’re both under two and they’re just screaming ‘Be responsible dad! It’s embarrassing that you only have £13.25 in your bank account. Stop thumbing your cock during the day and get out there and bring home a slice of normal, at least until we get blinds. Step up and be a man dad.’ I love them but they’re little psychological bandits who know how to push my buttons.

I’m in the boutique cupcake shop, we’re buying some for the neighbours who helped with Boy Son during the birth of Only Daughter. Just as we balance affordability with quality, in walks a guy ten years buffer than me, he’s holding a knife and he’s not happy about a previous cupcake sale. Finally I get a turn to shine. I take thirty-five years of anger and fear and crush this man with nothing but mind vibes. Mel Gibson in his hey day couldn’t beat my stare. Even as Riggs in Lethal weapon 1. My kids love me again, my posture improves, the cupcake lady dies because my vibes are new and need refining but no one cares because she died doing what she loved, combusting. As for Lady Wife, she tells me to snap out of it and open the door as ‘we have the cupcakes now Adam.’ Oh do we? Because from where I’m standing, we are a long way from cupcakes. ‘That doesn’t even make sense’ I know but this testosterone has got to go somewhere.’

And that was my week. No happy ending, not even a plot, just a man plugging along using his imagination to anesthetise the growing pains of responsibility.

* Not so much her but the infiltrating demon that she never told you about.

1996

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Wed, 11 Apr 2012 20:14:00 +0000

I wrote my first page of jokes when I was aged somewhere between eight and ten. I remember the moment I showed them to my Dad, who was paving the driveway at the time. He looked at the my efforts, smiled and then carried on lifting bricks. I’ve been needy ever since. Fast forward between nine and eleven years, and I’m walking up my local hill. The sun was setting, the air was warm and a man sporting loose pants, a tight T and a decent dose of Down’s Syndrome was heading in my direction. As my shadow lapped at his Volley’s he smiled and said, ‘It’s 1996 mate, it’s 1996.’ He repeated it three or four times and then carried on with his life. Now, when you grow up in the outer suburbs of Adelaide and an angel comes drifting down your local hill sprouting wisdom, you take notice. After our paths had crossed and my message had been received I remember thinking, ‘Yeah it is 1996. I should do something with my life.’ I’m not making this up. A lot of people get into comedy because they heard Bill Cosby on vinyl, or because they saw The Big Yin on television. Me, I got caught in the headlights of the ultimate truth and rarely do I look back. Clearly I had an interest in comedy but if I hadn’t met “1996” (I never got his name so I went with what I had) I may well be the slow guy on the Mitsubishi line. Happy and content? Maybe. But always wondering ‘what if?’. 1996 gave me courage. Don’t get me wrong, there have been times when I’ve wanted to punch him square in the nose, ‘I’m broke 1996! Broke and self involved! Why didn’t you tell me to be a Doctor? I could’ve been saving lives. I’d still be the funny guy at the barbecue. That’s all I need. A bit of attention and a side of coleslaw. Why 1996? Why?’ But 1996 wouldn’t have cared for troubles like these, instead he would’ve smiled at me and said, ‘It’s 2004 mate. It’s 2004.’ That’s the kind of guy he was and I miss him.

My point is I’m just like you. I have thoughts and they are funny and poignant and surreal and serious and callous, sometimes even cold. My only hope is that when you see me I’m entertaining and that maybe, like 1996 did for me, I inspire you in some way, shape or form to have the courage to do what ever it is that you want to do.

Red shoes

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Sun, 04 Mar 2012 22:10:00 +0000

‘We need an act for tonight’ was the tweet. I responded with a quick ‘I’m nearby, I can pop in.’ I wasn’t nearby, I was an hour and a half a way but you never know, this could lead to work, a big time agent might be in the room or a plane might fall into my house and, because I was proactive, I will be allowed to live. I caught the early train giving myself time to enter the gig with a, 'I was just over there' vibe. The room was in a WalkAbout pub that was made for vomit. Comedy came second to bile in this place but that’s ok, I thought, the audience will get me because tonight I feel gettable. I took off my brown boots and popped on my red shoes, the funny ones that make me look like I’m going places. I started talking to the guy I was sharing the bracket with. We were both given ten minutes. He was young, hung over and told me he’d just signed with a big agent. I’m thirty-five, wearing read shoes and have just signed with Boots to get a discount card. I then discover that the night is run by a promoter who already hires me. Now I’m doing a try out spot for a guy who I’ve already tried out for. Curse you twitter. Lady Wife was right, you’re a vacuous whore. It became apparent that I was wasting my time and, if the gig went poorly, shooting myself in the foot. ‘Ladies and gentlemen please welcome to the stage your first act for this second bracket Patrick Morris’. The kid was slick, confident, genuine and funny. ‘Now keep that round of applause going for Adam Vincent.’ I was disjointed, dark, and on this occasion, a testament to mediocrity. I had just received a kick in the pants from a star of the future. At least I hope he is because then it makes my so-so gig more glorious.

On the tube on the way home I hunched over, it’s my posture of choice after an average performance. Briefly, my mind pressed pause on the replay of my previous efforts, allowing me time to discover that I was still wearing my red shoes. My brown boots! I jumped off the tube, ran down the stairs, lunged to the other platform, waiting two minutes for my carriage (a long lunge), said goodbye to some small talk, ran up some more stairs, tried not to cry, negotiated with a bouncer, dashed down some stairs, rekindled my 'I was just over there' vibe, only to see my boots being thrown about the room by the headliner, a man older than myself playing a character older than himself, which was fitting as he seemed close to death. The snippet I caught included no laughs and a needy tension that I’m not ashamed to say made me feel good. It’s his own fault, had he been throwing my red shoes about people would’ve been in fits, the reds shoes are rarely mediocre twice in a row. I retrieved my boots, found a booth and popped them on like a school kid who had just been dacked. As I tied my laces a man came up and wanted to know where I am gigging next. 'You were funny. I really like your stuff' he said. It’s a fucking roller coaster people.

I have other comedy stories that I only post on my website www.adamvincent.com if you're interested.

Online moral high-ground

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Tue, 06 Dec 2011 09:25:00 +0000

I’m all for gay marriage, questioning the 1%, getting rid of hunger, ending tyranny, sorting out Aids and cancer, empathising with bullied children on face-smack; I love nothing more than sharing an online moral high-ground before breakfast. A good cause stirs the blood and prolongs erections. I just think it’s time we gave them some order. On top of the list has to be ridding the world of nuclear weapons. Two men being recognised by the government as married means nothing if, as they say ‘I do’ they’re bleeding from the nostrils due to radiation poisoning. Missing teeth and a mouth full of vomit tends to take the focus of what should other wise be a happy occasion. As for the remaining order of priorities does it really matter?

By all means fight the good fight but it’s quite clear that the powers that be are lining up to attack Iran because they may be building a nuclear weapon. It will start with an increase on sanctions; this will create tension in the region…actually stop! I need not justify why Russia, North Korea, UK , America, France, Belgium, Germany, Italy, the Netherlands and Turkey need to rid their countries of nukies*. (Israel won’t confirm or deny they have nukies, which is fine as they have a deep respect for international law. South Africa, a country known to have dabbled in nukies, claim they’re nukie free. Again, a tolerant country so lets not dwell.) My point is the lack of grace and understanding shown in all of the just causes mentioned above is the very reason why disarming nukies is of the upmost importance. It only takes one idiot to push the red button and we’re all toast and I’d put my front teeth on that idiot not residing in Iran. So I guess I’m asking if you like my sentiments feel free to share them and even act on them. Otherwise enjoy your weeties.

*I like to call them nukies because it makes them sound cuter. Some of the countries mentioned store American nukies and are able to deploy them.

A Real estate tip I never thought I would be qualified to give.

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Sun, 13 Nov 2011 22:57:00 +0000

I only ever did it twice I think, as not many people got it but I used to do a bit that went, ‘I recently bought a house. That’s not true I just wanted to say the words.’ Only me and maybe ten other people thought it was funny. One of those ten would later become Lady Wife. I wrote it because the idea of owning a home was so far fetched saying the words seemed - absurd. Therefore it had potential to be funny especially as I knew the majority of my audience were not in a position to buy a house. That’s what I told myself to numb the loser feeling real estate gave me. It turns out most of my audience did own houses and that’s why they couldn’t relate. Nothing has changed since I wrote that bit, except I’m married with a child now. FUUUCK! Don’t worry I’m actually very good at budgeting it’s just that my budget is always centred on the bones of my ass. The good news is my family love me and believe it or not, and I don’t, we went house hunting recently. I’m very much a bystander in some aspects of Lady Wife’s organised and adult life but I like to watch and take notes. So here’s a tip that I never thought I would be qualified to give:

When selling a house waft out some family smells like freshly baked bread or apple pie, or if you can, meld the two together and underscore it with a bit of Christmas. Under no circumstances should you allow prospective buyers to walk in and smell cigarettes and regret. Nothing reeks more than the scent of pending divorce. It hangs heavy in the air leaving the poor real estate agent with nowhere to go. ‘So what do you think?’ ‘I think this is what it smells like when doves cry. My inner child would only want to be here every second weekend. I walked in happy and now I want to throw a vase.’ ‘So have you been looking long?’

No this is my first time. I dared to dream and you ruined it!

Laugh and Cry

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Wed, 09 Nov 2011 23:09:00 +0000

With a candle lodged firmly in a rice cake we sang our first hearty rendition of Happy Birthday to Boy Son. The significance of the milestone must have interacted with a motherly hormone, as Lady Wife could not stop laughing and crying in unison. I’ve never had the skills to pull off the laugh and cry, or understand it, but nor have I had the vision to marry candles with rice so party hats off to Lady Wife for having the ingenuity and emotional capacity to take Boy Son from nought to one.

Photo by Lady Wife

Eghh's in waiting.

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Mon, 07 Nov 2011 09:21:00 +0000

Do you think Diabetes is too happy a word? It doesn’t really convey the severity of the disease. Cancer sounds like a sideways creeping cluster fuck whereas Diabetes sounds like a secluded Greek island. ‘Where are you going this summer?’ ‘Diabetes, Kath wants to learn how to windsurf’. It should be called ‘eghh!’ because that’s what you say when you see your first necrotic toe. Boom! I spent two hours on a train to try that bit out. It’s a keeper*. I didn’t mind the travel-time as I love what I do but don’t put me on a train for a stupid reason.

There’s something quite frustrating about having to prove that you speak English when the only language you speak is English. That frustration grows as the people testing your English, use it as their second, or in some cases, third language. I have nothing against folks who are smarter than me but as they are so intelligent surely all that needs to happen is a phone call! ‘Do you speak English well enough to be a nurse?’ ‘Of course I know the following sentences off by heart: Don’t worry I’ve seen it all before; I’ll be there in a minute; please don’t bite my face.’ Great you know the basics, you’re in.’ Alas no. I had to hop on a London bound train surrounded by overweight and illiterate teenage Eghh’s in waiting, with the hope that I’ll get the all clear to nurse their parents to a self inflicted and premature death. But still the positives are of the 7 billion people on the planet many are heading in this direction and one day, in the not too distant future, ignorance will create bliss. And while we’re on the topic of population control, which we all secretly want, poor communication skills in hospitals, is probably the answer. Night x

* Whilst it is a keeper in certain rooms it can also be used to start a staring competition, which I’m fine with as my auntie was born without eyelids so I’m match fit.

Tunbridge Wells it is then.

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Thu, 03 Nov 2011 10:24:00 +0000

We moved into a twee town called Tunbridge Wells, which sits an hour south of London - the not so sleepy hollow where I wanted to live. I like the idea of getting home, looking in the mirror and saying, ‘I’ve got a dusty nostril’. Who wouldn’t want to live in a town where you can pop ‘dusty nostril’ into conversation and it not be weird? Answer: My lady wife. Yep she was quick with an emphatic ‘no’ on that one. I tried discussing the matter but she has the vagina and that was that. I did get close to convincing her but then the London riots hit our screen all during our son’s first proper cold. Tunbridge Wells it is then. The irony being now that I’m here it’s obvious that if ever a town needed a riot it’s Tunbridge Wells. It’s like living in a tea cosy. For the first time in my life I miss hookers and junkies. They provide towns with a dash of misery and violence that allows you to appreciate your intact skin. Unfortunately I’m pretty sure they’ve all been strangled here because they’re the first people to go when everything is a bit too nice. All it takes is someone only winning bronze in the local Bloom competition, they react by not cooking their 35 year old son dinner and boom! He’s out slashing skanks. So here I am, building a life that will support lady wife and boy son and the start hasn’t been bad but, I do miss my creatures of darkness.

Photo by Lady Wife.

Mars

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Sun, 12 Jun 2011 01:45:00 +0000

Nothing to report on the ‘not watching the news’ front, except that I happened to get a glimpse of an article about an abnormal structure found on Mars. I didn’t mean to, I just peered at a computer screen that was on a mainstream news site and ‘boom!’ my year off news is the year Alien life hires a publicist. I’ve always suspected that Mars was once walked upon by creatures as foolish as ourselves and they did a good job of killing it. If I’m wrong then I’m hoping it’s a planet inhabited with intelligent Lizards who have infiltrated our kind here on earth; taken positions in government and have a vested interest in using mobile phone technology to give us brain cancer. The theory goes that tumours are a delicacy for these Lizards so they gave us the gadgets to farm what they most desire. Our best minds are their Foie Gras in waiting. I only hope this one’s true because watching the people who have spent their entire lives with their heads in the sand; watching them find ways to actually hide their heads in the sand would probably be worth having your scull munched out by a scaly stranger.

I’m assuming the abnormal structure on Mars has been denied because if people believed life on Mars was real, I’d be seeing more people relaxing at home during the week. The Tic Tac factories of the world would have a hard time convincing staff to believe in the benefits of mint. In fact having the breath and odour of a human would probably become the latest fashion statement. All these years denying what we are would become an embarrassing chapter in history as we all join team Human. Memberships only available to the imperfect faulty folks who aren’t afraid to smell, fail and shake their wobbly bits whilst dancing to the moon. At least that’s how it goes in my head.

I just finished reading the Adventures of Tom Sawyer and now I’m onto Huck Finn. Twain is the best kind of writer because he gives you back your youth without bossing you about. You want to lose weight and feel younger Tom and Huck are the ones to follow. You won’t find them on Twitter or Facebook as they only get in the way of fishing and being a pirate. In an un-planned bout of good timing I’ve been reading these adventures and seeking a move to the UK at the same time. I have a young family and the idea of moving country has stirred a lot of bullshit bravado in me. I puff up when secretly I’m shaking. But Mark Twain has let me glimpse my fearless youth and problems have morphed into adventures. And if the Lizards are real and my noggin doesn’t taste up to scratch then I’ll read him again to find my fighting spirit.

So in a-round-about way that’s been the energy of my week: Excitement of extraterrestrial life being mainstream news; dismay that it all fell on sand sodden ears; followed by confidence found in the devilish nature of two 19^th century adventurists. I’ve enjoyed it although it has ended on a sad note as on another young Australian soldier was killed fighting on foreign soil for reasons so twisted and vile they make a clear head cloudy. I didn’t see it on the news but instead heard it from a neighbour and it’s got my feathers ruffled. It could be time to write a letter.

The Shadow

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Mon, 30 May 2011 09:54:00 +0000

The last time the world was going to end was December 31st 1999 and I was splayed out in Brighton, Adelaide reading Drew Carey’s autobiography, which had a chapter of ‘My dick is so big jokes.’ My favourite; ‘My Dick is so big that if you look down the eye of my dick you will see billions upon billions of stars.’ I laughed so hard I scared myself and phoned my mum. I was moderately high, lounging in a room only 500 metres from my mums actual house, yet still, I bothered her landline and had a serious chat about the genius of Drew Carey, that this is what I wanted to do and for her not to worry because it was going to be alright. We all phoned our mums that night, all four of us. Four out of work actors and comedians, home for Christmas; off tap; full of certainty yet phoning our mums, asking for approval for the gypsy lives we so desperately wanted. I have no regrets. Although my world did nearly end that night when assuming my role as a follower, I negotiated my way onto a poorly tiled roof. Whilst wiping the fear from my eyes, I thought I’d lighten the moment by telling my close friends that when you look down the eye of my penis all you see is stretch marks from where, as an eight year old, I filled it with water in a bid to make it bigger. This was met with deafening silence followed by raucous laughter that generated trouser wee. My legs campaigned for dignity over balance and my confused acid infused brain agreed seeking refuge in a rose bush below. This was the best dick joke I ever did tell. It had truth, context and levels.

I haven’t seen the news in well over a week now. They throw it over the fence of a morning, they whore it out hourly on TV and radio and the concerned folks feel the need to remind of me of what I’m missing, but I’ve been strong. Friends not aware of my latest venture get a shock when I shout, ‘News’ and then pounce out of the room, like a possessed, lanky and determined Doofas. Nicky has to assure them that I don’t have a mental illness but rather, I’m out to avoid one. It’s a tough sell and whilst she’s doing her best, in their eyes I’ve entered crazy town and bitten the mayor on the ankle. Be that as it may, (a phrase I think you can only really say whilst wearing a three piece, holding a pipe and carrying a monocle) the fog is lifting and the results have been confronting and amusing.

I have The Shadow of doubt that has probably always been there but now without the distraction of the news, it reigns supreme. Each morning it vents into the mirror deconstructing the lines on my face. ‘That crevice in your forehead suggests you haven’t paid your bills Adam...or reached your potential!’ 'That hurt'. ‘Did you...did you pour water down your cock?’ 'Maybe. Jesus Shadow lighten up.' I tried to kill it by buying a meditation CD. After three days of telling my friends that I was 'getting into meditation', that they should try it, The Shadow pointed out that, as usual, I was full of shit. I put the CD in. I closed the curtains. I sat down. I briefly fantasised about becoming a guru. As the Shadow blurted out 'Cockhead' I pressed play. Proving the universe has a sense of humour the CD began to skip and got stuck repeating 'You are' over and over. 'I am what?' I angrily yelled as if my 1998 Sanyo had a divine quality. I soon realised that what I was, was in hysterics.

How many people, set to rid themselves of insecurity and anger, have ended up being heckled by their own meditation CD? Six people? Maybe seven? Either way I'm in an exclusive group. The best bit is that this all happened on the 21st of May 2011; a day some believe to be the end of the world. So if I was to assess my life by how I handle dooms day prophecies, as is the vague theme of this blog, I'm still the same old me. I even spoke to my mum. It was her birthday the day before and she had to phone me to remind that I'd missed it. 'Doofas'. 'Shut up Shadow.'

To be continued...

Lifting the fog

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Thu, 19 May 2011 01:38:00 +0000

In the tradition of making grand statements in May, this year I have decided to avert my eyes and ears from all forms of news media for twelve months*. The reasons behind 2011’s hasty statement, this mind enema, is that I’m convinced the news and all the discussions, arguments and foot-stompings that clamber along with it, are not only filling my head with shit but funnelling me into an emotionally vacuous existence.

The problem is the mind fog that the news creates, the headline driven dementia that distorts my grey matter with waves of horrigraphic** imagery. I don’t react anymore. I can see the world ending one day; a massive earthquake, leads to a tsunami, that encourages a plague of locusts, to fly a commercial airliner into a novelty sized test tube filled with the Ebola virus. I’ll be captivated for a minute before wanting more, like a starving orphan who feeds on the exciting misfortune of others. “Can I have some more planes please sir?’ ‘More! The world is ending and you want more!’ ‘Maybe just another angle sir? Or a deeper sense of impending doom from the Today show host?’

Recently I watched the Wikileaks footage of American soldiers deliberately aiming at, and killing, a group of Iraqi civilians, some of whom were children. I shook my head thinking it was disgustingly abhorrent. I even said ‘Jesus Christ’ under my breath as if he and I are on speaking terms, or as if his name and reputation have a deep connection with my sensibilities. They don’t. Regardless, this was the height of my reaction: A shake of the head and a slight, muffled nod to the J man. Then I asked Nicky to pass me the peas.

Now, if someone murdered my child in the name of ridding the world of terrorists, and then, those horrigraphics were projected into a foreigners lounge room, the very foreigner who didn’t campaign against the initial assault (a day of protest way back when doesn’t count); If that foreigner simply shook his head and asked for more peas, I would make it my life’s work to change that pea eater’s way of being forever. In fact I’d make pea eating an offensive term. I hope I’d have the strength of character to do this without resorting to violence, but considering that this morning, I threw my shoe at a wall because it ambushed my toe - I doubt it.

It was when teaching my six month old son how to avoid house work, that I had the epiphany - Allowing my government to take part in a war that has killed upward of 100, 000 innocent people, for the purposes of defeating something as intangible as terror, makes me a total pea eater. And I’m not alone. Even if you’ve never glanced at a pea, once you’ve seen the images, heard the stories, sniffed the truths, and not stepped up to intervene, not attempted to lift the news-induced fog and react accordingly, then the title is yours. Does it mean you’re heartless? Does it mean you don’t care? Probably not. Yet once you’ve witnessed the crime and then passively backed the government that sanctioned it, you’re veering into the realm of an accessory. If a nurse doesn’t come to the aid of someone in need of medical attention, be they off duty or not, they are liable. Surely humanity bares the same responsibility. Which begs the question, if violence is not the answer and getting on with your evening meal is a form of denial: What is the appropriate response?

I believe the first step would be revisiting the once noble action of empathising with your fellow man. Being shocked and hurt on their behalf. Looking at your loved ones and, as pain full as it is, and it is, imagine them being shot or bombed by an anonymous sky pilot. If you can do this for more than a minute you are a stronger man than I. (Within 45 seconds I had decided that on some level I had to act.) The second step, the most exciting step, the step that was the impetus for this May’s statement, involves lifting the fog, recapturing our imaginations and embracing our highly evolved ability to think, feel and solve. Ideas are the new frontline.

The manifestations of our imagination are the vehicles of the now and to ensure that I play my part in forging a path into a new and more peaceful world my year of no news begins.

I will update those that are interested with regular, and hopefully lighter, offerings of my progress.

*This event will not interfere with my current efforts to make good on previous statements in May. Swimming the English Channel and running the New York marathon are still on my to do list. In fact shying away from the news will free me up to do some laps and work on my stride. Wanker. My original May 2008 statement of ‘I don’t want to make grand statements but Fuck Rules!’ still stands.

** (Horrigraphic: new word describing horribly graphic images that a bong smoking philosophy student might tout as being, ultimately an illusion. I made it up. Inventing words before noon. Boom.)