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Showing posts from September, 2013

OCD-avid

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I’m a little bit obsessive-compulsive. It’s not debilitating – I haven’t washed my hands once since starting this sentence - but it definitely plays a part in my everyday life. Incidentally, OCD would scan a lot better alphabetically. Part of it probably comes with being an actor. It’s quite common to go through a series of little rituals before a performance; partly out of superstition, partly out of the necessity to warm up. I definitely do this - though sometimes it’s hard to tell whether my little pre-show routines fall more into the former or the latter category.   Sometimes it’s just about clearing your mind. When you’re onstage in a play, it’s very easy for your personal thoughts to intrude; the last thing you want when you’re trying to concentrate on what your character should be thinking. This is particularly common if you’ve been doing the same show night after night; I remember Hugh Laurie once describing this in an interview

The Chav of Punctuation.

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There is no quicker way to weaken a jokey statement than using an exclamation mark! See, I told you. For me, exclamation marks are akin to wearing a novelty tie or t-shirt; seldom justified and the 'joke' wears thin almost as soon as it's started. It's not that they don't have their place (if I was trapped down a mineshaft I'd probably use one) - but that place isn't at the end of an amusing sentence.   Doing this usually suggests you’ve lost faith in your own sense of humour, and have tacked on some rogue punctuation last-minute to hammer the point home ; “Look, Mum. I’M BEING FUNNY ”. You might as well have attached an MP3 of a swanee whistle, or a short GIF of you shrugging at the camera. (I know all my computer terminology.) If Michael McIntyre was a punctuation point he’d be an exclamation mark: a big, fat one in Comic Sans.   Sometimes, if I’m writing a text or an email to someone who doesn’t know me very well, then th

Didn't he do well?

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Last night saw the return of Strictly Come Dancing to our now not-so-small screens; the eleventh series of the only reality-tinged TV show in which I’m ever likely to show an interest. Since the beginning, Strictly has been hosted by the Light Entertainment veteran, Sir Bruce Forsyth – and every year, like clockwork, we get the Brucie Backlash. People line up on Facebook, Twitter and in the trashy press, calling for Bruce to retire. I, for one, am having none of it: I love Bruce Forsyth. The man is a legend. He has spent seventy-four years in the business (seventy-four years: Christ) - and in that time has worked with just about anyone of note. Worked with, and often shown up. If you ever get the chance, track down and watch the clip of him dancing with Sammy Davis Jnr. It's incredible.    Not many could keep up with an artist of that calibre. Brucie manages it. More than that: Brucie makes it look easy . Despite

Right on queue.

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Sometimes the briefest of conversations can cheer you up. I have got into the habit of visiting my favourite coffee shop almost daily. It offers a change of scenery if I’ve got nothing else on – and I find it much easier to get on with any work that needs doing, or my writing, when I’m out of the house. It’s also a good way of pretending I’m not waiting for my agent to ring. I visit the coffee shop regularly enough to have a “usual”.  All I need is a Ted Danson-a-like behind the counter for the transition to be complete. I’m usually in my favourite haunt by mid-morning. Today I arrived a little later – and, for no particular reason, was soon getting irritated by the woman in front of me in the queue.   She had one of those old-fashioned shopping-bag-on-wheels things in tow (the elderly's trolley-of-choice) – and despite being tiny, she still somehow managing to fill up the entire

Human catnip

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I’m a bit of a cat-whisperer. I live about half an hour’s walk away from the railway station; a route littered with potential feline assignations. There’s Timmy (the tabby one with the docked tail), Sid (black with white splodges), an as-of-yet unnamed black kitten – and, until a couple of days ago there was also Dally: the ginger cat with the high-pitched miaow, who liked to sunbathe in his front garden. Non cat-lovers are permitted to reach for the sick bucket. It’s safe to say that you’re either a cat person or you’re not. Correction: you’re either a cat person (Halle Berry), a ‘cat person’ (you like cats) or you’re not. I fall into the middle category; I’d look shit in a catsuit. My comedy partner Glyn would probably plump for option three . He once memorably described cats as “pointless”. He’s mellowed over time (my cat Millie showing enough affection to make him feel sufficiently guilty) – but generally, th

Ahoy-hoy.

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Please don’t take this the wrong way, but it’s probably best to never phone me. I have a gut-wrenching aversion to making or receiving telephone calls. I’m awful at it – and have been known to audibly groan when my telephone rings and I know I have to answer it. I don’t want to give the impression that I’m some sort of recluse. It’s also never meant as a personal affront to whoever may be trying to reach me. I just hate the ‘forced-into-a-corner, you-must-have-a-conversation-right-now’ feeling that can only come with the sound of an unanswered telephone. Stephen Fry summarises it better than I ever could, which is probably unsurprising. He says: “The telephone is a fantastically rude thing. It’s like going ‘SPEAK TO ME NOW, SPEAK TO ME NOW, SPEAK TO ME NOW’; if you went into someone’s office and banged on their desk, saying ‘I WILL MAKE A NOISE UNTIL YOU SPEAK TO ME’, it would be unbelievably rude.” For me it’s not so much a

Social media with a conscience.

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Last night I tweeted that a contestant on BBC1’s popular game show Pointless looked like a tiny-faced Bobby Davro. It was just a silly little joke – a prerequisite of my job: making silly little jokes – but within the space of a few hours, that silly little joke had been spotted, commented on and then retweeted by the contestant in question. Now, I think it’s safe to assume he wasn’t particularly offended; the smiley face and subsequent retweets by him and his fellow teammate would suggest as much. He may even be enjoying the novelty of the temporary fame that appearing on a game show has given him. However, Davrogate does serve to illustrate that the nature of modern social media means you’re potentially just a few short internet steps from direct contact with the person you may be commenting on. This is not the first time I have been stung by this - though thankfully, each incident has been fairly innocuous. A year or so ago I watched an excellent BBC1 d