New Comedian Of The Year (Leicester Square Theatre 2019, Bath Comedy Festival 2019, Nottingham Comedy Festival 2018) and member of three-time BBC Radio 2 Folk Award winning band The Young'uns
While waiting in the barbers a couple of days ago I received a phone call from a number I didn’t recognise.
“Hello David Eagle, before you say anything, please do not swear, you are on loud speaker and there is a class of college students listening.”
I was rather taken aback. Firstly I had no idea why I’d be on loud speaker with a class of college students listening. Secondly, I was a bit freaked out by the timing of this phone call, as I’d just been thinking about ideas for that day’s Dollop and had literally just come up with my idea to get Hartlepool back to top of the teenage pregnancy league by having sex with as many legal aged teenage girls as I could. And no sooner had I had this thought, I was receiving a phone call from a voice I didn’t recognise, telling me that I was now on the phone to a class full of college students, which would contain the exact demographic I’d just been thinking about having sex with. Could this be a sign from the beyond? An instance of divine intervention? God really does work in mysterious ways.
As the person on the phone continued to talk, I realised who it was. It was my friend Matthew from school, who I’ve not spoken to for about a year. He works as a music teacher in a college in Teesside. He went on to explain that the class were talking about having a career in music, and he’d decided on a whim, with no prior warning given to me, that he would call me up to talk to his class over the phone.
He asked me if I was free to say a few words to his class. There were still quite a few people before me to get their hair cut, so I had the time, although I had no idea what I was meant to say. My mind wasn’t really focused on talking to students, given that only seconds earlier I’d been musing about having sex with the very kind of people I was now about to talk to in an educational capacity. This now made such thoughts seem improper, as I would be abusing my position as a teacher, even though I’d never asked to be put in this position and had no idea that this was going to occur.
I spent about ten minutes on the phone, answering questions about being a professional musician, while I sat in the barbers. Goodness knows what the other people in the barbers must have thought. I probably sounded very pretentious, especially when one of them asked me what it was like to be famous. She seemed to sound genuine, but I couldn’t believe that she actually was. Rather than answering the question in a slightly self-deprecating manner, correcting her about the notion that I was in anyway famous, which I am not, I asked her if she had heard of me and if she really knew who I was. I asked this because I was surprised that she seemed to view me as someone who was famous, but to anyone else overhearing me in the barbers, it must have made me sound even more pretentious and up myself, asking, “do you know who I am? Have you heard of me?” The girl said that she had heard of me, and that she’d been at our sage gig last year. I was intrigued to know how many of the other students I was talking to had heard of me, and was just about to ask. “Give me a cheer if you’ve heard of me.” But then I came to my senses and realised how arrogant and pompous that would sound, both to the students and the other customers in the barbers. So I refrained from letting my curiosity get the better of me.
After about ten minutes, my old school friend who I very rarely speak to and haven’t seen for about five years, thanked me for my time and I got a thank you and a round of applause from the students. A few minutes later I got a message from him thanking me again for chatting to his students without advanced warning. “I owe you one,” he said. I thought about messaging him back and explaining my teenage pregnancy campaign, and to enquire whether his “one” that he owed me could possibly come in the form of a teenage girl from Hartlepool, as there was bound to be one of them in his class. But I stopped myself. I hope that God or whatever divine power is wanting me to do this isn’t too angry with me.
I’m writing this Dollop in the Young’uns van. Our UK tour starts today. We’ve just been to BBC Radio Lincolnshire to do a show, before we head to Grantham to do our first gig of the tour. If you haven’t got tickets yet for one of the gigs then there are still a few left for most of the gigs on the tour. It would be good to be able to sell all the venues out, both to satisfy my ego and also to get me a bit more money which I’ll be needing in order to pay my exorbitant child maintenance fees.
I called the bank yesterday in order to transfer some money to someone. When the man on the phone had done my transfer, he asked me why I’d chosen to use telephone banking today, instead of doing it online, which, he pointed out, can often be more convenient and quicker? I told him that I didn’t have my card reader with me as I was in Hartlepool, not Sheffield. He said that he could send me another card reader in the post to my Hartlepool address, so I could have a reserve one if I ever wanted to transfer money while I was at my dad’s house, and this would mean that I wouldn’t need to use telephone banking. I thanked him for his concern, but informed him that I much prefer speaking to a human, as it is often less stressful than doing it online. “Well just to let you know sir that we have made improvements to our online banking facilities and many of our customers do prefer the service, finding it much more efficient and quicker than telephone banking.”
I found this quite an odd conversation to be having, baring in mind he worked in telephone banking. He was essentially talking down his service, and talking his way out of a job. Fair enough, he might be required to mention the online banking option, but it seemed a bit strange to be bigging it up so much, whilst dissing his own job. I’m not sure why I’ve just started talking street. Perhaps I am subconsciously trying to sound more like a yoof in order to be able to interact more effectively with all these eighteen-year-old girls I’m going to be meeting next month, not that I’ll have much time to waste talking with them; idle chit chatting time will eat in to the time that I could be having sex, which is, after all, the fundamental purpose of the exercise. (see yesterday’s Dollop if you’re confused. You really should try and keep up though.)
Or maybe this wasn’t an edict from management, and he actually just had massive self-esteem issues. At the end of the call he asked if I would be willing to take part in an anonymous customer service survey to rate his call with me today. Apparently it would only take about five minutes of my time. He’d just told me that people prefer to do online banking because it’s quicker, and now here he was suggesting that I spent another five minutes voluntarily on the phone to the bank. Was this yet another ploy from management to annoy people so much with their telephone banking service that they decided to do it online in future? My telephone banking experience had been completely stress-free, quick and highly efficient; it had taken less than five minutes to make my transfer. But then I’d spent an extra two minutes on the phone with the man, justifying why I’d chosen to use his service above another one which would essentially one day make him redundant. And now I was being asked to spend another five minutes on the phone, answering questions about the last five minutes.
I was worried that I might never get off the phone, as I might be connected to the person conducting the customer service survey, who then asks me why I’d chosen not to take the survey online, before inviting me to do another survey rating her call. I might spend the entire day being put through to people at the bank in order to rate the last person’s conversation with me, until eventually there are no more staff left to take my call and I end up being connected to the first person I was talking to who’d originally done my bank transfer all those hours ago.
“Aren’t you the person I was talking to right at the start who did my transfer?”
Yes, I’ve just been moved over to the survey side of the telephone banking operation, as I’ve been made redundant from the actual proper banking part of the telephone banking service due to everyone choosing to do their banking online. Anyway sir, I just need to ask you a few questions about the last call you had with my colleague who was asking you to rate the call with my colleague who you were talking to before that, and then I’ll pass you onto my other colleague who’ll ask you to rate your call with me.”
“But I’ve already rated your call?!”
“Yes but that was you rating my service earlier when I was doing your transfer. You haven’t yet rated my administering of the customer service survey.”
“You know what, I think I will bank online after all. Goodbye.”
“We knew you’d see sense in the end sir.”
But fortunately that didn’t happen, as it was an automated machine voice doing the survey. However, this was just as annoying as the scario I invented in the last paragraph, because the automated machine voice wanted me to speak in full sentences to it, even though it didn’t seem intelligent enough to actually understand them. I didn’t want to crush the man’s self-esteem even more by declining the offer to do the customer service survey, so I agreed, but after five minutes of trying to talk to a stupid, annoying machine about how stress-free my telephone banking experience was, I ironically began to get very stressed. The phone conversation with the human had been fine, but this was beginning to drive me insane. I gave up and put the phone down.
I then went to get my hair cut. The barber asked me how long it had been since I’d last been to the barbers. I told her that it was about two months, to which she told me that two months was far too long a time to go without having a hair cut, and that people should be going to the barbers every fortnight in order to keep their hairstyle as good as it was when they first got it cut. This is a woman who knows how to talk up her job. The man from telephone banking could learn from this lady; although there is absolutely no way I am going to get my hair cut every fortnight. I will be far too busy impregnating eighteen-year-old girls for that, and to be honest, With the amount of stress that my marathon impregnation sessions are no doubt going to cause me, I will probably start losing my hair pretty swiftly anyway.
I’ve just checked Google, and it turns out I was wrong when I said yesterday that Hartlepool was the teenage pregnancy capital of Britain. I believe that this used to be the case, but we seem to have now been beaten by Burnly. Damn! We are no longer the champions.
I feel a sudden urge to do my bit to get us back to the top of the league once again. I am a proud Hartlepool lad, and I refuse to stand idly by while Burnly take the prize that is rightfully ours. And thus, I have no choice but to sleep with lots of teenage girls; they have to be of legal age obviously, I’m not a paedophile, just a pervert, albeit a pervert attempting to masquerade his perversion under the veneer of town-based patriotism. No, I am joking, obviously I’ll be doing this to put Hartlepool back to the top of the teenage pregnancy league where we truly belong.
To massively bastardise the words of Chumbawamba: we got knocked down, but we’ll be up again, and we’ll get up again by getting lots of teenage girls knocked up, coz we ain’t gonna be kept down … below Burnly. In fact, I think this should be Hartlepool’s anthem, designed to galvanise men and teenage girls of legal age to have sex for the honour and the glory of their home town. I will be seeing Neil from Chumbawamba on Wednesday, and so I will ask him whether the band would be interested in recording my song for this noble cause. I can’t see why they’d say no.
Sadly I have to leave Hartlepool in a couple of hours, and I doubt that’s really enough time to make any notable progress. I would need to find a teenage girl, check and then double check that she was of legal age, and then have sex with her. I doubt that two hours would yield any more than one teenage girl. And even that single bit of sex doesn’t necessarily mean that a pregnancy will occur, we’d still have to rely on the sperm making contact with the egg and fertilising it, which even for someone as virile as me, is still not a certainty. It would be a shame if I’d ended up having sex with a eighteen-year-old girl, only to find that it had been a complete waste of my time. Naturally, I’d be pretty pissed off about that, as I’ve got better things to be doing with my life than wasting it having sex with eighteen-year-old girls. I’ll be back in Hartlepool in May though, so I’ll make a concerted effort then. In the meantime, if there are any Hartlepool-based teenage girls listening or reading this who fancy joining me in doing their bit for their home town, get in touch with me. Again, I want to stress that I am only interested in girls of legal age, and I’d prefer it if you were closer to eighteen than sixteen, to avoid me possibly getting into trouble over any Gray areas. Although, if you’re sixteen and you have a Gray area, then you’ve probably got other things on your mind, and you might want to get some medical advice on that.
Just because I’m not able to do my bit for the cause until May, it doesn’t mean that the men and teenage girls of legal age can’t start without me. What are you waiting for? Come on! Lie back and think of Hartlepool!
Death was very much still the main theme of the day back at my family home in Hartlepool. Dad has been trying to tell me about his will, and to talk me through its various elements. I put up quite a bit of resistance, as I really didn’t fancy having this conversation. I told him that I am satisfied with just knowing what he’s written in his will once he’s died. After all, it would be a shame to ruin the moment by providing spoilers.
Dad has also just emailed me a copy of his diaries from thirty years ago that he and my mum wrote when I had cancer and became blind, as well as the diary he wrote just after mum died when I was twelve. He explained that he’d done this so that I had them to read when he’d gone. I have asked him if there’s something he’s not telling me, but apparently there isn’t. He is absolutely fine. He just seems to have acquired a new unusual hobby that involves him fixating on his own death and chatting about it to his increasingly concerned sons. I really think it’s his new hobby, as he doesn’t sound downbeat when he talks about it; he genuinely sounds jolly, as if he’s merely chatting about going to the shops or something.
I am of course relieved that my dad’s death doesn’t seem to be imminent, mainly because I’d be hugely sad, but also because it would be a shame if he never got to see all his hundreds of grand-children that he’s probably going to end up with if I do decide to go ahead with my campaign to get Hartlepool back to the top of the teenage pregnancy league table. Although, the stress and mayhem caused by all those grand-children will probably end up prematurely killing him. Actually, it’s likely that it will kill me first, as I’ll probably end up dying of exhaustion due to my none-stop impregnation marathons, meaning that I’ll probably end up dying before I get to see any of the children I’ve spawned; although, there’ll be so many that I wouldn’t be able to get personally attached to them anyway, and would probably simply just view each child as a point which brings us closer to teenage pregnancy capital reclamation and glory.
I think my dad’s matter-of-fact attitude about his own death is influenced by his fiancée Irene, who is very much a hardened, down-to-earth, no nonsense Yorkshire woman. She is certainly not abashed about discussing biological matters. The first time she cooked a meal for my dad (which was a delicious curry, beautifully and diligently prepared) she carried the plate over to the table, plonked it down in front of dad, and proudly declared, “there you are, now that’ll make you go in the morning.” Not “Bon Appétit” or anything pretentious like that. She’d spent hours in the kitchen making this meal, but before he’d even taken a mouthful of it, she was already commenting on its exit from him the next day.
So I think that Irene’s unashamed frankness about stark biological inevitabilities has rubbed off on dad, at least I hope that’s all it is, otherwise these Dollops are about to get rather depressing and introspective. I’d still throw in a few jokes for you though, don’t worry. In fact, I’m wondering if my dad put any jokes into his diary entries. Maybe he’s not sending me them because he’s thinking that he might die soon, but actually because he thinks they’re hilarious and might provide me with an award-winning standup show.
I’ve come back home to Hartlepool for a couple of days to see the family. Yesterday’s Dollop was released at 1135pm, with only 25 minutes to spare. The reason for this was because I spent most of the day playing with children. I am aware of the many comic avenues I could potentially take with that last sentence, but predictable punchlines don’t fall under the remit of David’s Daily Digital Dollop, which is all about breaking new ground and exploring new comic frontiers. So, when I say I was playing with children for most of the day, I am referring to children who form a part of my family, and there was nothing sinister going on, and I’m not even going to pretend that there was for comic effect. OK, I think we’ve dealt with that now. Don’t worry, I don’t intend to analyse every sentence in this much detail.
If you are listening to the audio version of this Dollop then you’ll have just heard my eleven-year-old niece Lucy, who appeared in the first few audio episodes of David’s Daily Digital Dollop. We did another batch of Dollop jingles yesterday, which I’ll be starting the Dollops with over the week. We agreed to reconvene and do some more jingles in 100 days time, although there is of course the possibility that in 100 days time she will feel that such exploits are the height of immaturity, far too childish and way beneath her, which will be sad and disconcerting for two reasons. firstly, it’s scary for me to consider how I have known Lucy since she was mere days old and seeing someone grow up at what seems to me to be a terrifyingly quick pace is a stark reminder of the rapid passage of time. When Lucy was born I was still at university. it will also be yet another reminder of my refusal to grow up and take life seriously. I don’t necessarily crave marriage and children, but there is a strong possibility that she will have kids and be married before me, which I think would force me into a situation where I’d have to start taking a look at my life. She is eleven now. She could have a child in just five or six years, in fact, she’s living in Hartlepool, teenage pregnancy capital of Britain, so let’s knock that down to three years.
I think going home always resurfaces these kinds of thoughts about the passage of time. It doesn’t help when my dad and his fiancée Irene seem to enjoy talking about death so much. One of the first things they told me upon me entering the house was that they were both sorting out their wills. Then the next conversation that followed this between me and my dad was a familiar one, because we have this same kind of conversation quite regularly.
It will start by dad saying something like, “I was in church last Sunday and I heard about Mrs Jenkins. Remember Mrs Jenkins?”
“no, I don’t think so.”
“You do. She went to our church.”
I haven’t been to church for ages, since my early teens.. My dad will persist though, despite me telling him that I’ve no idea who she is.
“She used to give you sweets after mass.”
“No, I don’t remember.”
“She used to nurse you on her knee if you started crying in church, and you used to immediately calm down.”
“no. I think it’s highly unlikely I’m going to remember that, because I was a baby, unless you’re about to attempt an obvious punchline about it only being five years ago when I was crying in church, in which case, be warned that I’m definitely not going to include it in thhis Dollop when I later mention this conversation, because as I said earlier, or at least I will have said earlier once I write the thing, this Dollop is about breaking new ground ad crossing new comic fronteers.”
“She was one of the helpers at Sunday school, who used to read the stories to you, because obviously you couldn’t see them to read.”
The conversation continues, and I gradually start to get a vague memory of Mrs Jenkins. My dad continues.
“She used to make the cakes for the church fate, and they were always your favourite, and you insisted on going to visit her stall first, remember?”
“Oh yes, you know, actually, I am starting to remember.”
“She knew you enjoyed music so she gave you a little toy keyboard to play with and said you could take it home. Your very first keyboard, remember?”
“Oh my god, of course, Mrs Jenkins. Lovely old Mrs Jenkins. Oh, she was great. I can’t believe I’d forgotten about her. Oh, how is she? I should visit her and thank her for everything. She was lovely. Mrs Jenkins, how could I forget. Oh, so, how is she?”
“She’s dead. She died last week. That’s why I’m mentioning her.”
Brilliant, I’ve just become reacquainted with a long lost friend who I am suddenly filled with so much love and appreciation for, only to immediately have her cruelly taken from me for ever.
And that’ll have to do for this Dollop, because it’s 1120, and I still need to record the audio version and upload it.
Yesterday, I saw the following news headline: “Corbyn Loses It With Female LBC Journalist.” LBC is a radio station in London, and according to this headline, Jeremy Corbyn lost it with one of their journalists. If you were merely taking a cursory look at the news, perhaps just skim reading through the headlines, then you might be forgiven for imagining some sort of bust-up, raised voices, possibly some swearing and some invective. After all, Corbyn apparently “loses it.”
So yesterday morning, a journalist waited outside Jeremy Corbyn’s front door in order to get some comments from him about the whole Cameron panama tax debacle. Corbyn has been clear from the start about not wanting to do interviews on his doorstep. Some people, including lots of wining journalists, claim that being doorstepped is part of the territory, and that if he doesn’t like it then he shouldn’t be a politician and leader of the opposition. But who decided this? Do you honestly think that when thousands of people signed up as labour members in order to vote Jeremy Corbyn in as labour leader, they were doing so because they were looking forward to watching what he had to say on his doorstep to a ragtag band of mediocre journalists, first thing in the morning, only half an hour after waking up? I don’t think anyone voted Corbyn in for that reason. I don’t recall doorsteps ever being mentioned by Corbyn or any of his supporters. So when these journalists declare that it’s part of the territory, they are simply throwing their toys out of the pram because Corbyn is not willing to play ball.
I think it’s fair to say that giving interviews is part of the territory for a politician, but I’m not at all convinced of the efficacy of conducting an interview with someone who’s still bleary-eyed and sleepy, having only just got out of bed half an hour ago. Although in Corbyn’s case he’s probably been up and about a bit longer than that, because obviously before he leaves the house he has to go through an arduous rigmarole of choosing his clothes for the day, being the fashion icon that he is (hahahah! Satire).
Surely it’s best to wait until he’s had a few minutes to digest the news, take stock of what’s going on, maybe have a cup of coffee and then consider his position and what he’d like to say before he says it? Then we’d actually get to hear a considered and well thought out approach to what’s going on, rather than a first-thing-in-the-morning, impulsive comment. Who’s that really benefiting? The answer is obvious: the journalists. That’s it.
It’s not as if Jeremy has refused to talk about David Cameron’s offshore affairs; he has released statements about it on labour’s website, mentioned it on Twitter, and spoken to journalists on his own volition in a more conducive environment for an interview, so it’s not as if we’re deprived of Corbyn’s thoughts about this.
“It took five weasel-worded statements in five days for the Prime Minister to admit that he has personally profited from an undeclared Caribbean tax haven investment deal. His determination to conceal that arrangement over many years raises serious questions over public trust in his office and his willingness to be straight with the public. Tolerance of tax avoidance and tax havens, and inaction on tax evasion, is denying funds to the public purse and leads directly to cuts in services and benefits that are hurting millions of people in Britain. The Prime Minister has lost the trust of the British people. He must now give a full account of all his private financial dealings and make a statement to Parliament next week. Only complete openness from the Prime Minister, and decisive action against tax avoidance and evasion, can now deal with the issues at the heart of this scandal.”
That’s what Jeremy Corbyn had to say mere hours after the LBC journalist doorstepped him, which I think is a pretty comprehensive and well-considered statement, much better than I’d imagine he’d have managed to come up with first thing in the morning, half an hour after waking up, upon leaving the house to be confronted by a woman baring a microphone and a camera.
If Jeremy Corbyn agreed to make a statement outside his house then it would be setting a precedent, giving journalists the notion that doorstepping him might yield positive results, and therefore more of them would camp outside his house, waiting for him to leave. So I think it’s perfectly logical and well within his rights to deny having interviews thrust upon him whenever a journalist fancies it.
Who decided that politicians are fair gain for this kind of harassment? Journalists are condemning Corbyn as if he’s breaking some kind of rule by his refusal to do unscheduled interviews with journalists outside his front door, but there isn’t actually any such rule. Maybe it’s time for the politicians to retaliate, and camp outside these wining journalists’ houses and harass them first thing in the morning, asking them to give them some sensationalist headlines on the spot, or to take some quotes out of context, without being given any prior warning. Any journalist who refuses to comply will be named and shamed at Prime Minister’s Questions.
So I clicked on the video and braced myself. I was expecting to hear Corbyn hurling abuse at the journalist, perhaps even physically assaulting her. After all, the headline said that “Corbyn loses it with female journalist.” I also read another headline on another website which said, “Jeremy Corbyn criticised over doorstep spat with LBC,” so I was expecting quite a bit of hostility to be coming from Corbyn, giving the terms “loses it” and “spat.” I also read various people’s comments. One of the commenters saw the clip and commented: “He’s a deeply unpleasant cunt with a serious anger management problem. Typical of thin men with goatee beards.” The commenter’s sensationalist, over-the-top, outlandish generalising betrays the fact that they are probably a wining journalist who believes that harassing people outside their front doors is their right and perfectly acceptable. It also seems a bit rich for this person to suggest that Corbyn has anger management issues, given that they call him a “cunt” and seems rather pissed off by all thin people with goatees.
So I pressed play on the video and prepared myself for the verbal, and maybe even physical onslaught.
As soon as Corbyn leaves his house the journalist is upon him. “Mr Corbyn, what is your reaction to …” she begins.
“Good morning everybody,” says Corbyn to the people outside his house. If you’ve not seen or heard this clip then you might be thinking, “good morning everybody? That doesn’t sound like he’s losing it. Presumably he must have said “good morning everybody” really aggressively, perhaps spitting the words out directly into the journalist’s face.” But no, I think it’s safe to say that his “good morning everybody” sounds perfectly pleasant, given the fact that he’s just opened his door and is being confronted by some annoying journalist.
The journalist says “good morning” back, and then continues to ask her question. Corbyn interupts the journalist, saying, “Thank you very much for coming here, but I don’t do interviews under any circumstances. Put it away please,” referring to the camera. The clip then ends.
I was stunned. This was apparently a clip of Corbyn losing it with a female journalist, but the whole thing seemed perfectly tame to me. There were 22 words spoken by Corbyn, which included, “good morning,” “Thank you very much” and “please,” words which I wouldn’t say are the hallmarks of someone losing it.
But the commenter who saw this clip said that “He’s a deeply unpleasant cunt with a serious anger management problem.” I must be missing something. Being blind, I couldn’t see the visual aspect of the video. Even though the audio sounds perfectly tame and polite, Corbyn must do something visually to justify the statement “loses it.” Maybe while he’s saying “good morning everybody, thank you very much for coming,” Corbyn is actually pushing the woman to the ground and starts punching her in the face. Yes, that must be it, hence the statement, “Corbyn loses it with female journalist.”
I played the video to my dad. I warned him in advance that there might be scenes containing violence, thinking that it would be best to prepare him for Corbyn’s savage physical assault on this poor “female journalist.” But when he watched it he merely informed me that Corbyn looks perfectly at ease and the only physical contact with the female journalist is to push her camera away from him as he says “put it away please.” That was it.
So let’s have a look at this headline once again and let’s see how accurate it really is. After all, it’s important that we scrutinise the work of journalists intensely, given that they passionately believe in getting to the truth and scrutinising politicians so intensely. It seems only fair to hold these journalists to the same standards that they expect of our politicians, does it not?
“Corbyn loses it with female LBC journalist.” The Corbyn bit is accurate; I’ll give them that, welll done. But I think it’s more than a little hyperbolic to suggest that he “looses it.” “Female LBC journalist” is also accurate; well done. But I’m interested in the inclusion of the fact that she’s female. The headline writer must have deemed the journalist’s gender a salient fact, after all, it’s a short headline, so only the key words are needed. It strikes me therefore that the word “female” has been used deliberately, but why? Is it to give people the impression that Corbyn has acted aggressively towards a vulnerable woman? Surely that is the only reason to use the word “female?” Surely if it was a male journalist, the word “male” would never be used in the headline. This headline actually says next to nothing about Corbyn but reveals so much about the journalists we’re dealing with here. Even though the video clip demonstrates nothing that is suggested by the sensationalist headline, they nevertheless choose to use those exact words in order to give people a certain impression and spin a story. They are lying, yet they are the very people who claim to be the ones who have a mission to uncover the truth and unearth lies and corruption. This is such a two-faced attitude, proving that these journalists are acting purely in self-interest rather than for any good.
Back tomorrow with the 101st Dollop. If there are any journalists thinking of trying to get tomorrow’s Dollop from me before I get around to writing it, by doorstepping me first thing in the morning and asking me to come up with that day’s Dollop there and then, don’t waste your time because I will politely decline your interview by thanking you for coming, and saying good morning to you whilst punching you repeatedly in the face, regardless of your gender.
Today’s Dollop is an audio Dollop, because I found it difficult to communicate this topic successfully in writing. I have therefore just decided to speak from the hart. The last 98 Dollops have been quite light and hopefully funny, but today I feel compelled to talk about something serious that’s really playing on my mind. It’s a difficult subject to talk about, but I hope that by doing so I will unburden myself and maybe even help others. I won’t write any more here. If you’re up for it, then feel free to listen to the below audio, otherwise come back tomorrow when the topic won’t be so emotional and serious.
After our love chair adventure (see yesterday’s Dollop if you’re confused) me, Sean and Ben went to a music shop to buy a new keyboard for The Young’uns tour, which starts next week, although you’ll all know that, because you’ve already got your tickets for one of the gigs, obviously. If you have enjoyed these free Dollops, then you can show your appreciation by coming to one of the gigs, otherwise I might be forced to sell my computer to make ends meet, and there’ll be no more Dollops. I know that some of you might be a bit put off by the fact that there’ll be two other people sharing the stage with me, and that you’d rather it just be me for ninety minutes talking about kettles and going to the shops, but think of you coming to this gig as an investment in the possibility of one day making that a reality, because if I have enough money then I’ll be able to concentrate on putting together such a solo show in the future. It is important to support The Young’uns in order to support my future solo career, so please buy a ticket and try and tolerate the other two, if only to help make my ninety minute stand-up show about my kettle a reality. But if you really can’t bare listening to Sean talking and singing about his dead grandmother, then you don’t have to come to the gig, just buy a ticket and stay at home and wait for the Young’uns Podcast to be released, where I will have diligently edited the other two’s nonsense out, as I know that this is what people really want.
We wanted to sell our old keyboard and buy a new one, and we hoped that we could do both at our local music shop. We did some internet research before setting off to find out how much the old keyboard was selling for, and also to ascertain the price of the new keyboard. Upon entering the music shop, we noticed that the price of the keyboard was quite a lot higher than it was at other stores. However, we ideally wanted to sort out the purchase there and then and part-exchange it for the old keyboard, rather than having to faff around with Ebay, which would involve having to wait for buyers and bids, and then sorting out postage and packaging. But the price was ridiculously high. I anticipated getting about £200 for the old keyboard, and even knocking £200 off the price for the new keyboard would still only mean that we’d paid the full price for it, given that the keyboard was priced £200 higher in this shop.
If I was by myself, I might have given up and walked out of the shop,. Perhaps I might make some very diffident enquiry about whether we could maybe get the price of the keyboard down a bit, but I don’t think I’d possess the requisite confidence or staying power to properly haggle. I turned to the other two to suggest that we left the shop, but Ben had already started purposefully marching towards the counter.
By the time I’d joined him at the counter, mere seconds later, he had already talked the man into knocking £100 off the price. But he wasn’t finished yet. Ben proceeded to execute some highly impressive heckling tactics. It was me who was buying the keyboard, but it was very much Ben who was in control of the situation. After a further couple of minutes of impressive haggling, Ben got the price down by another £100. He had now got the price down to match the price set by the other stores which we’d researched online. Ben had also managed to get them to take the keyboard for £250, which was better than I’d anticipated, given that it was an old model. Brilliant, I thought, and reached into my bag for my card. But then I felt Ben tug my arm.
“Come on lads, we’re walking,” he said, and proceeded to march in the direction of the door. Sean and I followed, even though I was happy to accept the price they were offering. It would be more of a hassle to sell the old keyboard on Ebay, and at least this way we’d take care of both buying and selling, and end up in profit. But Ben had said “we’re walking,” with the kind of authority that I’d not heard from him before.
But, Ben’s ploy completely worked, for just as we were reaching the door the called us back, and knocked another £50 off the keyboard.
“Now you’re talking my language,” Ben said, again with the kind of confident swagger in his voice that I’d never heard from him before. I once again reached into my bag to retreave my card to pay, but it transpired that when Ben had said, “now you’re talking my language,” that hadn’t meant that the haggling had finished.
It went on for another ten minutes. At first Sean and I felt a bit awkward and embarrassed, but as time went on I began to really start enjoying it. It was clear that both Ben and the man were rather enjoying the haggling, and I began to start appreciating it as a sport. We were watching two heavy-weight hagglers at their very best. I’m pretty sure that the haggle became so compelling that other people in the shop turned to spectate. Ben and the man kept doing things like, stepping towards and away from each other, moving closer if they felt as if a deal was maybe being reached, but then one of them would turn away and take a couple of steps back, until the other one backed down and presented a new offer. They were clearly both enjoying themselves, because they were properly bantering away with each other as they haggled. This sport had everything: drama, physical and verbal theatre .
For the last five minutes of the haggle, they were essentially quibbling over £5. Ben had managed to knock a further £70 off the price, but was still endeavouring to talk the man down by another £5, but the man was having none of it. Neither of them were budging. Eventually the man agreed to knock an extra pound off, but stated in a very self-assured voice that this was definitely his final offer. Ben accepted, they shook hands, and I was finally allowed to get my card out and pay, shaking slightly with the adrenalin and excitement of it all.
As I paid, Ben and the man continued to banter with each other. Whenever Sean or I tried interacting with the man, it was clear that he didn’t hold the same respect for us, viewing us merely as ordinary, common garden shoppers, whereas he clearly had proper respect for Ben, seemingly impressed by his haggling abilities.
Ben is a music technology teacher and buys a lot of instruments for the college, and so has cottoned onto the fact that people in music shops are used to haggling over the price of equipment, something which I’d never really considered before. I was massively impressed with this other side to Ben that I’d not seen before, and when we got home I snuggled him extra hard in the love chair to show my gratitude, which, let’s face it, is probably the reason why he’d haggled so well on my behalf.
As much as I enjoyed the haggling experience, I hope that Ben doesn’t let this success go to his head and start haggling in other places. We are going out to a restaurant and some pubs tonight, and as fun as the haggling was, it does take up quite a bit of time, and does make you a lot more conspicuous, and I am already conspicuous enough being in The Young’uns and being the creator of David’s Daily Digital Dollop, which obviously garners me a lot of attention from adoring fans.
Yesterday, Facebook rolled out a new feature which describes Facebook photos to blind people. While this could be seen as a great step forward for accessibility and equality, in practical terms, all it means is that now blind people will have to endure hearing about superfluous, pointless crap such as, “photo of average looking lasagne; photo of fairly generic looking spaghetti bolognaise.” In the past our screen readers would have simply ignored the photo, but not any more. So I’m all for technology making the world more accessible and equal, but at the same time I am a not too happy about being dragged into this whole new world of tedium. There are few advantages to being blind, but being able to skip pointless pictures of people’s meals was certainly one of the rare bonuses, and now Facebook have taken that one consolation away from us, the evil bastards.
Today is a very special day for my housemates Ben and Elsa, as they are taking their relationship to the next level. They have bought something called a Love Chair, also known as a Snuggle Chair. They are both playing this purchase down, claiming that it’s merely a compact, practical chair, but I think that this is clearly a major step in their partnership. They have reached the snuggling stage of their relationship. Who knows, give it a year and they might be sleeping in the same bed. But for now, I don’t think they’re ready for that quite yet, and so naturally, Elsa will be continuing to share my bed with me until she is ready. It’s important for them not to rush these things, as I am at pains to remind them. But I am really happy for them both that they have reached the snuggling stage, and that they have expressed their love for each other through the medium of chair-purchase.
Elsa has been at work all day, so Me, Ben and Sean went in The Young’uns van to pick up the chair, which was at someone’s house, as Ben had found a good second hand deal on Gumtree. The three of us went into the house. We each had a sit in the snuggle chair, and it was very comfortable. But the husband and wife who had owned the chair insisted that two people needed to try it. “It’s a snuggle chair,” she implored, “designed for two people to sit together, and it’s much more comfortable when two people are sat on it, as opposed to just one person.”
Ben and I both sat on the chair together. It’s essentially a chair designed for couples, and it’s quite intimate as there’s not much space. The cushions also sink down quite low, and the way it sinks causes the two people to recline together.
“You both look very homely on there,” the lady said, sounding pleased. I think Sean and I had both started to realise that the husband and wife had obviously assumed that Ben and I were gay, in the way that they were looking at us and interacting with us. I don’t know why it even mattered what the old couple thought about us, but for some reason I started to try and explaine to them that I wasn’t Ben’s partner, I just happened to live there.
“Oh no, I’m not Ben’s partner,” I said, as I got out of the seat.
Ben still hadn’t cottoned onto the couple’s assumption, as he was too busy assessing the chair, checking that it didn’t have any blemishes. Ben turned to Sean, patted the seat and invited him to sit next to him. This made the couple assume that if I wasn’t Ben’s partner, then Sean must be.
“Ah, yes, you both look very homely on there,” the wife said, sounding even more pleased, as if trying to overcompensate for her previous mistake. Last time she’d said that Ben and I looked “homely,” before discovering that we weren’t actually partners, so this time she presumably said “very homely” and delivered it with extra relish so as to placate Sean, in case he felt jealous by the couple’s previous assumption.
Sean, like me, for some reason felt the need to correct the woman’s assumption about us being gay and in a relationship with Ben, and so he also pointed out to the woman that they were not a couple. He explained that me and Ben lived together and that he was just a friend. Ben, for some reason decided to add some extra information to that statement, mentioning that although technically me and Ben lived together, me and Sean probably spent more time away with each other than I spent at home with him. This was simply meant to be a casual throw-away statement about me and Sean being away gigging, but without the inclusion of the gigging element, it merely seemed to make the couple more confused, as they tried to work out just who was with whom.
“We’re away playing together quite a lot,” I began, about to add the fact that we were in a folk group, but seemingly the pause between that next fact was too long for Sean, and so he hastily interjected, “in a band, he means. We’re in a band together.”
“A folk band,” I added. In hindsight, I think it’s safe to say that the line, “we’re away playing together quite a lot,” although intended as a harmless statement, did seem a little suggestive, given the thoughts that appeared to be running through this confused couple’s heads. Sean had instantly realised this, which was why he’d interrupted so quickly to point out that when I said “we’re away playing together quite a lot,”I was referring to playing in a band. Sean’s hurried comment about being in a band made me realise how my original statement must have come across. Therefore, in order to make up for my previous accidental euphemistic line, I decided to furnish them with more information to help give more credibility to our explanation. So I added, “a folk band. It’s a folk band.” But I think this probably sounded to the couple like I’d added this extra bit of information because I’d realised that our cover-story wasn’t sounding particularly convincing.
There was a bit of a pause. The wife cleared her throat, and the husband asked, “so … er … what instruments do you play?” The wife cleared her throat again, maybe because she was picking up an awkward atmosphere, and wished her husband hadn’t asked this question, as now we’d have to manufacture more lies and develop this already fragile cover-story.
Sean and I both spoke at the same time. I said, “I play accordion,” and Sean said, “it’s unaccompanied singing.” We were both correct, as we do a mix of unaccompanied songs and also play with instruments, but to someone who didn’t know our band it sounded like two completely contradictory statements, as if we were both just continuing to badly busk our cover story, trying to hide the fact that we were in a gay three-way relationship with Ben.
There was another pause, and the wife cleared her throat again. Sean and I realised how ridiculous this whole thing was becoming and started to laugh. Ben had begun to register what was occurring and he also started to laugh. This only made the three of us more embarrassed, and no doubt look even more like we were in a gay three-way relationship which we were completely failing to cover up.
When we’d stopped laughing, we all decided to just give up our attempts to explain that we weren’t in a gay three-way relationship, as it was clearly a lost cause. Ben hurriedly handed over the money and we took the chair out to our van, helped by the husband. As I’ve mentioned before, The Young’uns van is meant to be a three seater vehicle, but in reality it’s more of a two and a half seater, as the three of us have to squash in very tightly together. I don’t think seeing me, Ben and Sean squashed up very close together in a tiny van did anything to disavow the couple of the notion that we were in a gay three-way relationship. They probably assumed that we’d bought the van deliberately because of its intimate size, which is why we’d also bought an intimate snuggle chair. They probably assume that the three of us drove home in our intimate van, got the chair in and spent the rest of the day snuggling together. Which is of course not what happened at all; we only spent half the day snuggling, because Sean had to go home to his “fiancée” to sort out things for their forthcoming wedding, which let’s face it, is clearly a smokescreen to distract people from Sean’s real relationship with me and Ben. Oh what the hell, there’s no point denying it. And before you ask, no, there is absolutely nothing going on between any of us and Michael; we’ve not stooped that low.
I went to asda today. That’s right, not Sainsbury’s. You can’t pin me down. I thought I’d mix things up a bit for the blog. Some bloggers get stuck in their ways and end up standing still, writing about the same supermarket over and over again, but not me, I’m keeping it moving, keeping it fresh. Sorry Michael Wackington that it wasn’t the co-op, but Ben wanted to buy some clothes, and some drain unblocker, as well as food, and so the co-op just wasn’t going to cut it on this occasion. But there’s still another 270 Dollops to go, so there’s plenty of time to write about a visit to the co-op.
As we wondered through the shop, we were treated to the sounds of Asda FM Live. The Voice Over kept proudly declaring that the station was Asda FM live, even though it sounded like it was just an automated station comprising pop music, and a few adverts for Asda products. There was nothing to suggest that the station was broadcasting live. There wasn’t a presenter, there weren’t any listener calls, texts or tweets. No travel bulletins: “and thanks to Jenny, currently shopping at the Asda superstore in Luton, who called to let us know of a hold up at the drinks isle, apparently due to a spilled crate of beer, caused by an accidental collision with a trolley being pushed by a harassed and flummoxed parent. Staff are currently cleaning up the spillage, and the drinks isle should be free-moving once again very soon. We will of course bring you more news on that as we get it.” No weather reports: “Asda stores’ average temperature is 21 degrees Celsius, that’s 70 degrees Fahrenheit. Although, things get a little bit cooler as we head towards the frozen foods section, with an ambient temperature of about 7 degrees Celsius, that’s 45 degrees Fahrenheit. Highs of 23 degrees Celsius, 73 degrees Fahrenheit, that’s in our bakery isles.”
But alas, none of that, sadly. It was clearly just an automated station, yet the Voice Over kept saying “Asda FM Live.” But what did they mean by live? Surely they didn’t employ someone merely to sit there and occasionally press a few buttons, given that an automated play-out system could replicate that just as easily; in fact, it sounded exactly like an automated system, making that person’s job completely redundant. Even if it was an automated system, they could have still recorded a presenter doing some links that could then be interspersed throughout the music, which would have made it sound a bit more live. But they didn’t even do that. So I really think it’s stretching the point to call the radio station Asda FM live. In fact, even the FM part of the station name is a lie, because they’re not broadcasting on FM. Basically, the whole Asda FM live thing is a complete sham, and it’s about time someone was brave enough to say it. At least the co-op’s radio station actually have real presenters, isn’t that right Michael?
The Voice Over and jingles would frequently inform us that Asda FM is available “online and in-store.” I was quite surprised to hear that Asda FM is available online, given that it is just a selection of fairly generic pop music that can be found on every pop commercial radio station in the western world, interspersed with Asda related adverts. Why would anyone choose to listen to Asda FM online? Who are the people who choose Asda FM as their favourite radio station to listen to at home? Do they listen to it in order to try and recreate the magical experience that they get whenever they shop at Asda? If they could, they would spend their entire day in Asda, but alas, the staff eventually move them on after about ten hours. But at least when they’re at home, they can tune into Asda FM online and feel that they are in some way still connected to the Asda store. I cannot comprehend why, of all the choice out there, someone would choose to listen to Asda FM Live online. I assume though that they must get enough online listeners to make it worth their while. Unless of course they are lying about being online, just as they are lying about being on FM, and lying about being live. The whole thing is a sham I tell you. I wouldn’t be surprised if it turns out that even the asda stores don’t actually exist, but are a very elaborate illusion, perhaps part-orchestrated by someone like Derren Brown.
Anyway, we got everything we needed in Asda (or did we? Was it just a clever Derren Brown mind trick?) including the drain unblocker, which cost £4 for a tiny bottle. We took it home, and poured it down the sink. Despite the smallness of the bottle, it seemed to do the job, but still, that’s 4 quid down the drain. Hahaha. That wasn’t my joke; it actually came from Ben. I told you these blogs would start picking up once he and Elsa got back, didn’t I?
I hope the hangover from our crazy party last night wasn’t too bad for you all this morning. I woke up really refreshed. I think my sleeping patterns maybe back to normal, as I fell asleep at 11pm, and slept right through until 7am, feeling fully awake.
I then did an article about The Young’uns for the Big Issue. So I’ve already written 2000 words today, and now I’ve got to write some more. I mean, I suppose I could cheat and use my Big Issue article as today’s Dollop, but then I am a bit worried that this might affect the newspaper’s sales, resulting in homeless people all over the country starving to death. Of course, this is working on the assumption that I am going to be that day’s headline story, the big draw to get people to buy; but is that such an outrageous assumption to make? I mean, is it? What? OK then, fair enough, probably yes.
I’d like to think that even if I did put my article up here for free that you wouldn’t refuse to buy the Big Issue as a result. I think you are all far too conscientious to do that. But I would hate it if word got back to me from the Big Issue that they’d not seen the major boost to newspaper sales that they’d imagined my presence would have afforded them. I don’t want to hear back from a member of Big Issue staff that a load of potential buyers picked up the newspaper, saw my front-page article (I assume it’ll be on the front page), said “ah, that’s a brilliant article, I read it for free on David’s website last week” and walk off, maybe chuckling to themselves remembering their favourite line from the article that’s still in their memories because of how funny it was, while the poor Big Issue vendor shivers in the street next to a pile of unsold newspapers because everyone’s already read it online for free and have already printed out their own copies, laminated it and put it up on their bedroom walls. “Curse that David Eagle,” they will whimper. “The Big Issue staff told me that today’s newspaper would sell so many copies that I’d be able to buy a house. Why did he have to put it up online for free, the bastard? Why?!” I don’t want to be a figure of hate among the homeless community of Britain.
Or even worse, the Big Issue staff might not know that I’ve put the article online for free, and when they get the disappointingly low sales figure, they conclude that I’m obviously nowhere near as popular as they assumed me to be. I’d hate them to think that. That would be a terrible blow to my ego, and would be arguably worse than the shivering, whimpering homeless people. Hey, I said “arguably,” don’t look at me like that.
I’m not sure when my article is coming out, and I probably won’t get to know. I hope though that this blog post isn’t going to result in people approaching a Big Issue seller, picking up the newspaper, rifling through it in order to see whether I’m in that day’s publication (not that you’ll have to rifle through, because I’m obviously going to be on the frontpage as their leading story) and then, upon discovering that there’s no article by me, put the paper back down and walk off. Perhaps I should email the Big Issue to warn them that this might happen, and ask them to alert me as to the day of my article’s inclusion, in order to avoid this kind of thing occurring, which could be pretty psychologically damaging for the poor Big Issue sellers.
Obviously, I am not being serious, and think it is very doubtful that my inclusion of the +article on this blog will have any affect on Big Issue sales. I may be in the Big Issue, but I am not a big issue. They’ll probably edit what I’ve written down quite a bit, baring in mind it’s 2000 words long. So I may well release the article as tomorrow’s Dollop. Then hopefully you will enjoy it so much, that you will buy loads of copies of the Big Issue and give it to your friends so that they too can enjoy my amazing words.
My housemates Ben and Elsa return from their holiday in Spain tonight, which will be good news for any Dollop readers who have missed those particular characters. I don’t know if there’s anyone out there reading this who has missed their mentions in these Dollops, but that news may bring cheer to someone reading this. I am in the house and have no plans until Saturday, so I hope that Ben and Elsa will be able to offer some inspiration for these Dollops, and not just be all boring and ordinary around the house. One of the terms and conditions of me moving into the house was that I write about them, and I haven’t done that for the last month, due to being in Australia, but now that we will be once again united tonight, I am obliged to start writing about them again.
Now and again they deliberately do things in order to gain Dollop inclusion. Elsa bought a needlessly complicated kettle, knowing that I’d mention her in my Dollop, which obviously succeeded because it spawned my hilarious kettle-based observations. Who knows, maybe they’ll have brought back another needlessly complicated household appliance for me to write about.
Oh what excitement, friends. Will it be my Big Issue article? Will it be some observations about a stupidly overly complicated domestic item? Or will it be something else entirely? Join me tomorrow to find out; as if you’d be able to resist.
