Hello Wembley, Goodbye Dome

A lot of people don’t care for the work of comedian Michael McIntyre; I’ve heard complaints that he’s too lightweight, that he’s too slick, and even (more strangely) that he laughs too much at his own material.

Anyway, I like his stuff – it reminds me, in a way, of Bob Monkhouse, in that it’s very slick and polished, which can be slightly offputting, but lurking beneath it is a lot of work and comedy knowledge. It’s a funny convention of comedy performance that a lot of the time comedians are expected to deliver lines as if they’ve just occurred to them, I always think.

All that aside, whether you like or loathe Mr McIntyre, I think that very few people won’t see their estimation of him raised by this news report from earlier this week.

As we cool kids say whilst bumping knuckles*, respect is due.

*Not like that, you filthy sort.


Cover Design Aside, I’m Currently Reading – And Enjoying – The First Of These Three Books


Mind Your Language


  1. I think this a great story, nicely played Michael. I really like his stuff too, simply because it genuinely makes me laugh, and not may comics do so. I didn't know he'd been criticised so much, but hey, there's nothing more infuriating to people than conspicuous success. Especially the British.

  2. Tch, you ex-pats with their cloth caps and your cardigans and your transistor radios and your Sunday Mirrors, complaining about the tea – "Oh they don't make it properly here, do they, not like at home" – and stopping at Majorcan bodegas selling fish and chips and Watney's Red Barrel and calamares and two veg and sitting in your cotton frocks squirting Timothy White's suncream all over your puffy raw swollen purulent flesh 'cos you "overdid it on the first day."
    And being herded into endless Hotel Miramars and Bellvueses and Continentales with their modern international luxury roomettes and draught Red Barrel and swimming pools full of fat German businessmen pretending they're acrobats forming pyramids and frightening the children and barging into queues and if you're not at your table spot on seven you miss the bowl of Campbell's Cream of Mushroom soup, the first item on the menu of International Cuisine, and every Thursday night the hotel has a bloody cabaret in the bar, featuring a tiny emaciated dago with nine-inch hips and some bloated fat tart with her hair brylcreemed down and a big arse presenting Flamenco for Foreigners…

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