We Have Moved

Hello.

I've now moved my blog to my new website at www.sambradycomedian.com

Come and have a look.

Cheers
Sam x

The Poorly Child Procedure

Last Friday, my daughter woke up complaining of stomach pains.

It's the nightmare scenario - 7:30am on a workday, your child sitting on the edge of their bed, clutching their stomach and looking very forlorn. Time is ticking away. Your kid is not even dressed. You are going to be late for work. And Junior is going to be late for school. Again.

You start to panic. After all, schools get very arsey about lateness these days. You'll probably get one of those letters from the Head of Year insinuating that you're an unfit parent. Next thing you know, Social Services will be knocking on the door and a magistrate will be sending you on a parenting course. You'll have to listen to some well-meaning imbecile in a pink shirt lecturing you about "boundaries" while putting up slides of runaway children on crack cocaine.

Worse still, if the illness is genuine, you may have to phone your boss and tell them you can't come in. They will try to act all understanding in an "I don't want an industrial tribunal on my hands" kind of way. But really they are making a mental note that you are a liability to be disposed of in the next "restructuring".

OK. Don't panic. It's time to implement The 5-stage Poorly Child Procedure.

Stage 1: Denial

Simply ignore the complaint and breezily change the subject.

"Dad, I've got a really bad stomach ache."

"Ooh...is Family Guy on tonight? I think I like that even better than the Simpsons...what shall we have for tea?"

On this particular Friday, though, denial didn't work. The complaints continued and, after several attempts at completely ignoring her, I escalated matters to the next level.

Stage 2: Acknowledgement Without Commitment

Sometimes kids just want a bit of sympathy. They are not looking to completely disrupt your day with a full blown sickie - they just feel a little bit poorly. So try offering a brief acknowledgement before quickly moving on to the day's business.

"No but Dad it's reeeaaaally bad..."

"Oh dear, is it love? That's awful. Here are some clean socks. Your dinner money's on the kitchen table."

Unfortunately, this time, Brady Jr was having none of it.

"Dad! I mean it. It's really bad!"

OK. On to Stage 3.

Stage 3: Gentle Interrogation

You need to find out if your child is telling the truth. And Quick. But you can't sound too accusatory, or the situation could escalate into a screaming match.

The following questions should be asked, with as casual an air as possible:

"So...what subjects have you got today?....How did you get on with that maths homework that was due in this morning?....How are you getting on with your friend, Amy/Ellie/Jo?"

While asking these questions keep a careful watch for any sudden eye movements. If it helps, pretend you're in the CIA.

Sadly, on this occastion, Brady Jr barked back - "Look I'm not trying to get out of school - OK!?"

Then she doubled up in what looked very much like pain. Time for Stage 4.

Stage 4: Accentuate the Negative (with thinly veiled threats)

The situation is now quite serious.

If your child is faking and you fall for it, the consequences could be dire and far-reaching. They may realise just what a gullible idiot you are. This could mean spending the rest of your life being taken for a ride, culminating in them persuading you to sell your house and move into an old folk's home so they can afford a breast enlargement operation.

What's more, schools dislike absence even more than lateness. They've got attendance targets to meet and they don't want your lily-livered lack of interrogative skills to screw things up for them.

The only option now is to raise the stakes.

"Oh dear. I really don't want you to be ill - you'll miss horse-riding/the cinema/your friend's party/etc"

This is quite sneaky really. What you're actually saying is: "Even if you are not genuinely ill I will make sure you have a miserable day."

She knows it. You know it.

On this occasion, Stage 4 brought about the realisation that Brady Jr would be unable to sing at the school concert. She'd been rehearsing for weeks. But now she was too ill to perform. She was totally inconsolable.

It was now time to enter the final phase of the procedure.

Stage 5: Give In and Feel Like a Lousy Parent

"OK. I'll phone the doctors," I said.

Two hours later, we emerge from the doctor's, get in the car and head for the hospital.

She looks at me accusingly from the passenger seat. "Acute appendicitis! That's Acute appendicitis!"

I try a charming smile. "Oh well, better to have a cute appendicitis than an ugly one."

"Very funny," she says, solemnly clutching her abdomen. "You should be a comedian."

Newsflash: Plane Crashes. Repeatedly.

Last Sunday we went to a family gathering at my mum and dad's.

My two little nephews had been given a remote control plane for Easter. It wasn't exactly an expensive, top of the range model - that would have been madness. In the hands of two small boys, this plane's prospects for survival were akin to Oceanic 815 flying over Lost Island.

The lads were desperate to get the thing into the sky. But my Dad would not give clearance for take off from his back garden. He was understandably reluctant to see it smashing through Ernie's greenhouse next door. Ernie is a lovely old bloke. But he loves his garden. To him, crashing a plane into his greenhouse would have been like another 9/11.

So the lads asked if they could take the plane down to the Bottom Field.

The Bottom Field is where I used to play football and rugby with my mates when I was a kid. It's a strip of grass that somehow manages to have both a steep slope and bad drainage. It is the perfect playground for young lads, as it provides the opportunity to get absolutely filthy, which is particularly satisfying when you're dressed up for a family do at your grandma's.

So a gang of us went down to the Bottom Field and, on the way down, the two nephews formed a plan. Nathan would hold the plane while Thomas fired up the propellers using the remote control. Nathan would then let go off the plane and it would soar up into the sky.

So Nathan stood there with the plane in hand. Thomas hit the controls and the propellers fizzed into action. For about a second. Then they stopped.

Thomas pushed the lever every which way but the propellers wouldn't shift. It was clear that the plane was dead. The lads looked very disappointed.

That was when my cousin, Jonno, stepped in. "Don't worry, " he said. "I'll have a go. When I throw the plane, you press the lever and then it will start."

Jonno launched the plane into the wind and luckily it caught the breeze and sailed through the air in a satisfying arc before touching down lightly on the nearby road. The lads cheered. We laughed in disbelief.

Sadly, that initial success turned out to be a false dawn. As you might expect with a remote control plane that doesn't actually work, further launch attempts resulted in failure. For about ten minutes we laughed hysterically as Jonno tried to relive the heady heights of his maiden flight. But effectively, the only spectacle he managed to conjure up was that of a grown man, repeatedly throwing a piece of red plastic to the ground.

The boys were starting to lose faith in the plane. I decided to step up and have a go.

"The problem is," I lied," that you're not pushing the lever at the right time. Now, I'll count to three, and then you push the lever. OK?"

"OK!"

"OK...get ready to press the lever...1...2...3...GO!"

I launched the plane. It caught the wind and swooped vertically into the air. Then the wind dropped and it came vertically down again, planting its nose firmly into the mud and remaining there, like an arrow stuck in the ground.

I looked at Thomas with mock incredulity. "Did you press the lever?"

"Yes!"

"You can't have done!"

"I did!" He protested.

"You have to press it on the count of 3..."

"I did! I did!"

"OK," I sighed. "Let's try it again. But this time push the lever."

"I did!"

OK so I admit - this was more for the entertainment of the adults than for the kids. The concentration on Thomas's face as he tried to perfectly time the lever was hilarious. It seemed like only yesterday that I was playing the same tricks on my sister - his mother. I felt like a teenager again.

We repeated this several times and, for me at least, it didn't seem to be getting any less funny. But Nathan and Thomas both started to protest. "It's not working! It's broke!"

"No," I said. "You just have to push the lever."

We tried again. And finally, by the law of averages, the plane caught the breeze and swooped around the sky above us, changing direction three times before gracefully landing on the grass. The boys jumped about excitedly. The plane was working after all!

"Well done!" I exclaimed. "You pressed the lever at just the right time!"

Now the boys were really having fun. In their excitement, they snapped the ariel off the remote control. Amazingly, this didn't seem to affect the performance of the aircraft at all. It still plummeted into the ground 9 times out of 10. But then on the odd occasion, it caught the wind and took flight.

Nathan took charge of launching the plane, while Thomas focussed on pushing the lever.

With practice, Nathan got better at launching the plane into the wind and making it glide. Unfortunately, Thomas took all the credit for this, putting it down to his increasing mastery of the lever.

Eventually we'd had enough and we all marched back with the shattered wreck of the plane and big smiles on our faces. It was one of those magical times when you feel lucky to have a family you can laugh with.

Unfortunately, I got a little bit too giddy and told young Thomas a made-up story about the Baby Jesus and a Vauxhall Corsa, which he later repeated. That got me a bollocking from my sister.

But, hey, you can't win 'em all.

Seat Anxiety

Sometimes, with my day job, I have to take the train over the Pennines to Leeds.

This is a very pleasant trip if you've got a seat. But too often, on the return journey, I find myself standing in the aisle with aching legs, apologising every five minutes for accidentally braining a fellow passenger with my laptop bag.

It's often a bit of a lottery with rush hour trains. You never know how many coaches they will put on, what time the train will arrive and whether all the seats will be reserved.

The result is Seat Anxiety - a form of mass hysteria where sane, rational people become pathologically fixated on a single goal - to get their arse on a seat ahead of everyone else.

It doesn't matter if the person next to you is elderly, pregnant, disabled or in a coma. If their game plan isn't good enough to beat you onto that train then that's tough. It's a jungle. We'd all like to be generous and compassionate - but those things come at a price. Having no seat can mean up to 40 minutes of moderate discomfort and a nagging feeling of resentment. And that's a price I'm just not willing to pay.

So yesterday, I was determined that this would not happen to me again. No Mr Nice Guy. I was getting a seat on that 1708 to Liverpool Lime St, come what may.

I was supposed to be travelling home with my old friend and colleague, Martin. We'd been in the same meeting together. But he has an annoying habit of asking lots of awkward questions at the end of a presentation when it's time to go home, so I deserted him and set off down the hill to the station.

On the station concourse, I grabbed my bag in my hands like a rugby ball and stepped nimbly through the thronged mass of humanity with the agility of an international scrum half. I strode up the escalator two steps at a time. As a mother pulled her small child out of my path, I heard her say, "Why people have to run up a moving escalator, I'll never know!"

Oh you naive fool, I thought to myself. Don't you realise that a delay of a few seconds could be the difference between sitting or standing for the next 40 minutes?

But then I thought, hang on - maybe she's onto something. Being with a small child is an excellent strategy. Little kids are brilliant at forcing people to give up their seats. If necessary they will cry very loudly in the face of a fellow passenger - something that I wouldn't feel able to do without risk of arrest.

I briefly considered obtaining a juvenile travelling partner, but the plan was fraught with difficulty. For a start, I don't think they would let me bring a small child into the office. And who would lend me one anyway? And on the whole a small child would only slow me down. I might miss the train altogether. And even if I got a seat, travelling with a small child would be a nightmare. They're always bellyaching over something, aren't they? They want to lie down when there's nowhere to lie down. When there's nothing to drink, they're thirsty. And they always need to wee at the most inopportune time. My God - I think I'd rather stand in a child-free carriage than sit down with a kid and have to deal with that lot.

Anyway as I approached platform 16a, I had left the naive, the slow and the physically impaired behind and was running with the leading pack - an agile and ferociously competitive bunch of people in suits, each bearing a laptop bag and a look of grim determination.

I punched the air in triumph as I realised that the train was not yet in. That meant that I could fight my way to the edge of the platform and achieve pole position before it arrived. This I did with aplomb and when the train pulled in I found myself standing right by the door, in a prime position to be the first into the carriage. For the first time in my life I had achieved the exhalted position of Door Tribe Leader!

Each carriage on the train has two doors - one at either end. When the train arrives, an unruly mob gathers around each door. At the front of each mob is the Door Tribe Leader. It is their responsibility to hit the Door Open button the very second that the doors are activated by the driver, allowing their Tribe to enter the carriage.

The Door Tribe Leader carries a lot of responsibility. If they are too slow, people at the other door for that carriage could flood in and take all the seats before his or her own tribe can get on the train. Many times I have stood in the middle of the mob and mentally urged the person nearest my door to hit the button quickly, cursing them if they allow the other lot get ahead of us.

Being Door Tribe Leader is a high-pressure situation. So it was with some trepidation that I adopted the "ready to board position" - one foot forward, arm half-raised in anticipation of pressing the button - and waited.

I stared at the Door Open button, waiting for it to light up. I was scared to blink in case it lit up while my eyes were shut and I wasted a valuable nanosecond. I stood like this for what seemed like an age. The door button wasn't lighting up! This was torture. Why were they taking so long to activate the doors? Behind me I could feel the members of my tribe thinking "Don't blink, man. For God's sake, don't blink!"

Then a horrible thought occurred to me. What if the light on my Door Open button was broken? What if they activated the doors and I stood there doing nothing while the rival tribe piled into the carriage through the other door. Imagine the shame! Imagine the social disgrace!

For a moment I contemplated repeatedly hitting the button just in case, so that the moment it was activated I would be in. But with all those people watching me I felt too self-conscious. Anyway, maybe that would be cheating. Perhaps I would be breaking some sort of unwritten platform code of ethics. So instead I gave a nervous glance to my right, just to make sure my rival tribe's door hadn't been activated. No - their tribe leader was still standing there staring with all her might at her Door Open button.

My rival looked like a fairly frail, oldish little woman. Surely her reaction times couldn't be better than mine? But then again she had got this far. You didn't get to be Door Tribe Leader unless you were up to the job. The race for the platform was a very efficient process of natural selection.

So now I was alternating my stare between the Door Open button and my rival at the other end of the carriage. My eyes flicked from side to side at an alarming rate. I must have looked like I was having some kind of fit. I could hear people in my tribe starting to become concerned. "Is he alright? What if he drops dead? We'll never get a seat then!"

Then suddenly, like the traffic lights at a F1 Grand Prix, the green light appeared. A jolt of addrenalin shot through my body and I felt my hand lurch forward as if driven by some invisible, unconscious force. The doors flew open and, with a blood-curdling cry, I led the charge onto the train like a sword-wielding Captain leading the 500 into the Valley of Death.

With a feeling of intense elation, I threw my laptop bag down onto my seat as if I was plunging the Union Flag into the soil of some far-flung corner of the Empire. I had done it! I had led my tribe to victory. They had entrusted me with the Door Open button and I had not let them down!

But my sense of triumph was short lived. As it happened, on that particular day, the train company had laid on an extra carriage and there was plenty of room. No need to rush at all. In fact half the carriage was empty. All that Seat Anxiety for nothing! I couldn't believe it. I slumped down into my seat with a sense of utter dejection.

Still, at least I was sitting down and that was what really mattered. I took a deep breath and relaxed into my precious seat. Maybe I would have a little nap.

Then, just as I was drifting off, I realised I had company. Out of all the seats she could have taken, the woman from the escalator with the small child chose to sit opposite me. I glared out of the window and cursed my luck. Meanwhile the small child let out an ear-piercing whine. "But I don't WANT organge juice! I WANT COKE!"

Christ. I hate kids, don't you?

If It Ain't Broke...

I won’t be getting Election Fever this year. I’ve been innoculated against it by 41 years of hype and disappointment. However, since I’m going to have to live with the outcome of this ruddy debacle, I suppose I’d better get involved with it.

Yesterday’s election theme was “Electoral Reform”. A lot of people seem to be getting excited about Proportional Representation. (I know... get a life!)

Personally, I think it’s a daft idea. After all, wasn’t that the electoral method that made Nick Griffin MEP for the North West? I wouldn’t mind but he’s not even from the North West! (They come over here taking our jobs...)

That’s the problem with Proportional Representation. It tends to give a slice of power to exactly the kind of people who should never have it – the kind of people you wouldn’t leave in charge of a pan of hot milk, let alone a nation.

The only sensible people who want Proportional Representation are the Lib Dems. And fair enough – in the long run, it’s the only way they are ever going to have a proper say.

The other two main parties don’t like it though.

Despite constantly telling us that they want “Change”, the Tories are fairly keen that the electoral system stays just the way it is. And who can blame them? Short of them getting a credible leader or some actual policies, the First Past the Post system is probably their best chance of being elected in future.

Labour don’t want to change it either. It’s the last thing they want. But they have to pretend to be a bit flexible just in case they need to do a deal with the Lib Dems after the election.

Anyway, the point is that, for once, I think that Labour and the Conservatives are right. So here are four good reasons not to adopt Proportional Representation.

Reason 1: The Scottish National Party

Scotland has got lots of oil. If Scotland became independent of Britain, they could lord it over us in the same way that the oil-rich nations of the Middle East do today. That means they could do anything and we would have to carry on being nice to them. The Scots might well follow other oil barons and buy up all our best football clubs. (Let’s face it – theirs are crap.) Before you know it they’ll have enormous yachts, racehorses and an atrocious human rights record. And we’ll have to grin and bear it.

Reason 2: Plaid Cymru

The Welsh have no oil. They used to have loads of coal but those days are sadly over. Now they have to eke out a living running caravan parks and down-at-heel fun fairs. And all in the pissing rain. They don’t really want power as such. What would they do with it? But a bit of sympathy wouldn’t go amiss. And they do like a good moan.

Reason 3: The British National Party

Although they are not a racist party, and have no links at all to Nazi ideology, they still want anyone who is not pinky-white to go and live somewhere else. They also don’t like gay people, although it’s unclear exactly what they would do with them. Send them back to Queerland, probably.

The BNP don’t have a clue about running the country or representing their constituency. They are also a bit shaky on History. And facts. But what they lack in actual knowledge, they make up for in enthusiasm. At least their supporters will bother to vote.

Nick Griffin is rumoured to be stepping down after the election in favour of someone who doesn’t come across as quite so much of a snivelling fascist worm. It will probably be a nice, cuddly, middle-aged woman with a respectable husband and well-behaved children. I’m guessing this time they will go for someone who has never been filmed doing a Nazi salute or gone on record as saying the holocaust never happened.

Reason 4: The UK Independence Party

They want us to get out of Europe and they want to make sure we keep the pound. I’m not sure how either of these things would help us. But it would certainly make the UKIP people feel better about life. UKIP seems to be made up of extremely posh old men who wish they were still living in 1929. Some people suspect that UKIP share the BNP’s hatred of everyone who is black, or gay, or who speaks with a funny accent. But unlike the BNP, the UKIP chaps are far too decent to make such a song and dance about it. They might be bonkers, but they are not vulgar.

So there you have it. The First Past the Post system has one simple advantage over Proportional Representation – it protects the sane majority against the lunatic minority. It’s a kind of filter through which extreme Nationalist views have so far failed to pass.

And, frankly, thank goodness for that.

5 Things I Hate About Hair Cuts

Yesterday I went for a haircut.

I went to a barber rather than a hairdresser because I like to think of myself as a proper man. And proper men go to the barber's.

In fact there is absolutely no difference between a barber and a hairdresser in terms of what they can do. Anyone is allowed to cut hair, wax bottoms, singe scalps and take people's money for it without any qualifications whatsoever. And anyone can call themselves a barber, hairdresser or stylist - which title you choose has more to do with how camp you are than what services you offer.

But even though I know there is no real difference, I still prefer a barber. Because I am a proper man.

Traditionally, the British Barber has always been a jack of all trades. A few centuries back, barbers could pull teeth, apply leeches, give enemas, and saw off troublesome limbs. These days they mainly confine themselves to cutting hair, making small talk and dreaming up amusing names for their premises.

Anyway, to celebrate the tradition of the Great British Barber, here are 5 things I hate about going for a haircut.

1 Barbers' Shops Have Stupid Names

Barbers are in a class of their own when it comes to giving their businesses stupid names. They usually involve some kind of crap pun, like The Hairport or Hair Today Gone Tomorrow. I came across one in Birmingham recently called Head Cases. Why would you want to have your hair cut by a head case? What the hell were these crazy Brummies thinking?

But my favourite is in the place where I was born – Billinge, near Wigan. It’s called Villagehairs. I think it's a pun on the word "Villagers". Unfortunately, the pun only works if you say it with a Billinge accent – Vill-ige-uurrs.

A much cooler approach is to give your Barber’s shop an American sounding name, and my local barber's has done just that. They have called it The Men’s Room. That's the American phrase for "Toilet". You might not think that’s very cool. But imagine if they’d stayed with a more English phrase. The Shitter, for instance. It simply wouldn’t have had the same appeal.

2 How do you want it?

I'm a 41-year-old, straight, Northern male.

I don't know how I want it.

However you cut it, I'm not going to turn into Robert Pattinson.

So just cut some of it off and let me go home.

3 Looking at myself in the mirror

I don't like to be reminded that I’m getting older. I usually overcome this difficulty by never looking in a mirror unless I really have to.

But at the barber's I have to sit in front of a mirror for a full twenty minutes with my big fat pasty face staring back at me.

When I was younger, nobody warned me that my face would inflate. Nobody prepared me for that night when I gazed out of the window, admiring the full moon, only to realise it was actually my reflection in the glass.

As a teenager, I enjoyed trying to chat up a young female hairdresser. But not any more. It’s hard to get flirtatious with someone who is shearing a thick clump of fuzz out of your ears.

4 Product

"Do you want product on it?"

Product? What kind of product? Rice Krispies? A TV set? A Ford Mondeo?

When I was young it was called hair gel. But these days they just call it "product". It's as if even they don't know what's in it. They don't like to commit themselves. And the strange thing is that the less specific they are, the more expensive it seems to get.

No I don't want product. Just dust me off with that giant floppy brush and I'll be on my way.

5 Too Many Questions

In order to be a hairdresser, you have to be a nosey bugger.

“Are you going away this year? Where you going? Have you been before?”

How is it any of their business? Anyone would think they were conducting a survey. They should have a clipboard and a badge.

“Are you working? What do you do?”

What? Who are you? The DSS?

Next thing he’ll be on the phone to the Benefits Fraud Helpline.

So that was it. I got my haircut. I ought to write an amusing end to this but I haven't got time. Goodbye.

Laugh or Cry?

Have you ever had one of those nights that are so surreal that the next morning you wonder if you dreamt it?

Wednesday was one of those nights. I was doing a gig at this trendy bar. I'd done my set and was sitting with a pint of Guinness, waiting for the compere to introduce the headliner.

That was when things got really weird. The compere, Jim, was enjoying a little bit of banter with a girl in the audience. He had been chatting with her all night and had built up a nice rapport with her.

It all seemed to be going very well. Then he made a remark about her boyfriend and everything changed.

"My boyfriend's dead," she said.

The place fell silent. Jim's comment had been fairly innocuous but it had clearly upset her. Her body language had changed and she looked like she was fighting back tears. Her friend sitting next to her looked horrified and covered her face with her hands.

I looked around the audience - every single person was staring at their shoes. The tension in the room was unbelievable. Meanwhile, all the colour had drained out of Jim's face. He opened and closed his mouth a couple of times - but what could he say?

The girl got to her feet and fled to the toilets. Jim watched her go. He still didn't say anything. It wasn't just the show he was worried about - he was plainly upset at the distress he had caused. Eventually he turned back to the audience who were now all staring at him. "How was I to know?" he pleaded.

As a comedian, these are the situations you dread. A heckle can be dealt with. A drunk punter can be put down. But exposing a person's genuine suffering in front of a room full of people is pretty hard to turn around.

In establishing a rapport with an audience you are creating an illusion of intimacy. The joy of this is that everybody feels like they are spending a few hours among friends. They relax. They drink. They laugh.

But actually you don't know these people from Adam. Their problems and vulnerabilities are hidden below the surface of their happy faces like emotional land-mines, just waiting for a joke to fall wrong-footed. Jim had just walked blindly into a minefield. The girl was in tears. The audience were silent. And Jim looked genuinely devastated at upsetting the bereaved girl.

Then, just as I was wondering what the hell he would do or say next. The girl emerged from the toilets.

"April Fool!" she said.

I have never experienced such a complex mixture of collective emotions. Here was a crowd of people who just didn't know what to feel. Some laughed. Some jeered. Some were silent.

Jim himself was a good sport - laughing with sheer relief, I should imagine. I don't know what he felt inside. But I was really angry. I felt like punching her. Like the rest of us, Jim had worked his balls off to try and get the gig moving and give everyone a good time. And then this daft cow had undermined it all with a cheap and pretty sick practical joke. I had a complete sense-of-humour-failure. And a weird sense of betrayal.

And it wasn't just me. Everyone seemed to go weird after that. A string of bizarre hecklers emerged from the shadows: a man in a wedding dress; a small bearded man who looked like Mr Tumnus from the Narnia Chronicles; and a woman who kept shouting out something about a goat. It was as if the girl's sick joke had caused a complete breakdown in everyone's idea of what is normal.

It made me realise that behind every social situation there are unwritten rules about how to behave. There are jokes, and there are those things beyond a joke. You don't have to be a comedian to overstep the line. And, often it's not clear where the line is, until you're standing on the other side.