Behind every successful man is a strong woman fighting a werewolf.

  It actually could be a cat, like a big cat - although it’s hard to tell, there’s a lot of movement, and there’s a man in the way so I can’t really see. Looks pretty violent, I mean I think she’s gonna win though, she’s really going for it.  By she, I mean the human woman - I don’t know the gender of the thing she’s fighting.  Again, I’m having trouble indentifying it. It has red eyes and teeth like a shark.  There’s a guy holding up a big cheque in front so it’s not straight forward.  It’s noisy though, and there’s a smell. Someone has shit themselves – I think it’s him.  Yep it’s him. 


So i'm back doing live stuff. It's quite possible you didn't miss me or indeed notice i'd stopped.  Anyway - I written a new one hour show and i'm hawking it around for a while until i can get to Edinburgh in 2018. Here's the poster. Bit serious maybe.


Phone rings  
B. Nick?
N. Alright sis?
B. You coming to uncle Johns Birthday?
N. Can't, i'm presenting a DIY SOS in Kendal
B. Fuck sake Nick. He's your uncle too. You're always working.
N. I'm always working! Me? Bit rich coming from you isn't it?!
B. Nick, i'm Beyonce - it's harder than it looks you know.
N. Yeah, well, i'm Nick and I've got sort out a mobility winch for a teenager.
B. Fine, but you owe me tenner for the gift. And don't forget the fucking card.
Hangs up

Broadchurch - Series 2

I did a bit in this series - it's out on Monday. It was intimidating coming onto a show that was already so successful, but everyone was incredibly welcoming, sweet and kind to me. You could tell they they all knew that they were a part of something out of the ordinary though, no one rested on their laurels - the cast all brought their absolute best to the job, nothing was ever half done.  It was a privilege to be around.

Open Spot

I did stand up *recently, for the first time in maybe two years and I had forgotten just what a wringer it is. Back when I was a regular, people would often say “I could never do that” , which I would take as a sign of just how brave I was. It occurs to me now, that they might have meant...

“It’s not normal to ask a group of strangers to react to you in a public place. The fact that you do it might reasonably be seen as a sign that a part of you is broken in someway. When I imagine myself doing standup comedy, it flips my stomach, I feel weird, I imagine it like a waking dream, a nightmare of sorts - and then i’m reminded that it’s OK! I would never ever do it, because that part that’s broken in you, isn’t broken in me. I don’t need affirmation from strangers, I look for it in friendships, from family, from lovers - and if I can’t find it there, I look to myself or just do without.

You though, you pin your self worth to the success or failure of every gig you do even when it’s never entirely in your hands. A good or a bad show maybe as much to do with the weather, as it is to do with your performance, and yet you carry on. I get that that’s the stupid mechanism that drives you to get better and I can see the value in good comedy, which is, at it’s best, like magic, Neuro-linguistic Reiki, dream worthy - but it is a dream built on bungaroosh. It frightens me. Be careful that that hole in you doesn’t open up and hurt others. Personally, I wouldn't take that risk. But then what would I know, i’m just a **Shark Plumber.”

*Died on my hole.

**A person that carries out plumbing near sharks.

Live well - For less.

Edit: I realise this is a pretty appalling image. For context however - I made it after Sainsburys released a Christmas advert featuring a dramatization of the WW1 Christmas truce of 1914, you know - to sell groceries.

A Wooden Box

So there is this sort of thing.  Try not to get too turned on.


Say hello to my little friend


And this is Wendy, his wife


And this is Steve

Oh hi - we know each other actually - our children go to the same nursery.

Great - well help yourself to the fucking nibbles.


7pm. My wife was out, my son was in my arms, and I was dreaming of dinner. He had drunk all but the last of his bottle and was asleep, hand to ear as he does, like a disk jockey. Not long now, i thought, and I will have the evening.

He coughed and I heard it rise. A splutter first and then all of it. A torrent of puke, as if poured from a jug. No time to run, all I could do was sit and wait; make sure he could breath and watch as he coats my lap, my chest, my arm, his hair, the pillow, the chair. 

He woke up and smiled at me, which was decent of him, but his chipper mood didn't last. I carried him to the bathroom, like a man crab, so as not to drip too much on the carpet, and lay him on the matt. He burst into furious tears, as I stripped us both naked, filling the bath with our clothes. 

The smell was sour and sweet with that bile note that catches the throat. It reminded me of the rotten yoghurt we were served at that Persian restaurant we found. My wife had laughed so much about that, back when it was just the two of us and we went out after dark.

I cleaned him as quick as I could, and wrapped him up again holding him on my chest, his perfect brand new self, and me his ridiculous father, soaked to the balls in vomit, the very balls responsible, in part, for him that had vomited.

Which is basically what Elton john's circle of life is about. 


You can’t help a cough, and yet, the lizard in me wants to leap across the aisle and grab my teenage co-traveller by the throat. I would lift her from her seat, her face purpling, the train table that once bore a selection of M&S bits, splintered into sticks.

Cries would come up. “Mercy! Help us! A man has become monster and he has one by the throat” and “Let her go!” and more “it’s not her fault” etc.

“Lies” I would scream, “whose fault is it then?!” Rage splitting my face like a lychee, my brain then out, eyes hanging, jaw wide and cracked teeth sharp and higgly piggly.
I would Slam the desperate body against the window which would burst into gems. and hang her out in the wind. “stop the train! Alarm” a shouter might shout. 

“No” It would be the Train Guard, dressed in robes of orange. High Viz. “It’s better that we get to a station. It’s easier to get help in a station” His voice strong, clear, humorous. Everyone calms instantly, some even sleep.

“you” he would say “You must forgive her It’s not her fault she has a bit of a tickly cough and a two hour journey”.

“I cannot accept it” I would shout in my new lizard voice “the girl revels in it. she has the face of a pig and it has no happiness. she is sour and is coughing too loud on purpose”

“I cannot say what she did look like, as all i can see is her now,” said the guard, “head about to pop, life leaking from her broken frame as it flaps in the wind. You must let her live or she will never have a chance to repair her behaviour. Like BBC3.”

Passengers would acknowledge the guards grasp of contemporary issues, but i would still be conflicted.

“i may let her go” I would say “but first you must hear me”. “Quickly then” the guard might say, "she has so little time"

“she has those beats by dre headphones, and i know she got them not through honest work but by a demanding tantrum”

“you assume she did”

And i would know i had gone too far.