Download the audio version of today’s Dollop here

Fortunately, we managed to get booked onto today’s flight to Canberra, and have arrived safely in spite of the fact that I was a bit worried that I might be responsible for killing everyone on the plane. As with our flight to Melbourne, there was another example of seemingly anomalous messages from the airline stewards. We may have solved the one about me being told off for putting my seat belt on too early. Gill commented: “As far as I know all airlines ask you to leave your seat belt unfastened when refuelling. I have always assumed this is so that in the event of said fuel igniting everyone can get off the plane faster!”

I could ask the airline staff on my plane journey home in order to try and verify whether Gill’s hypothesis is correct, but I doubt that if I asked them they would give me a straight answer in case it was overheard by a nervous flyer. I’ve been on two planes since then, and each time I’ve put my seat belt on as soon as boarding, and no one has said anythin. I may be endangering my own life, and possibly the lives of the people in the seat next to me, but I think it’s worth it in order to see if anyone says anything to me about it, which obviously I’ll report in this blog. I’m sure my fellow passengers would understand and be completely fine if they knew that their lives may be being slightly endangered due to a blogger carrying out some important research. I would argue however that I am not impeding my exit time by keeping my seat belt on. If the fuel happened to ignite then it would take me less than a second to take off my seat belt, and I really don’t think that this amount of time would matter.

But this kind of hubris may end up killing me and others one day, and perhaps this Dollop will be read or played out in school assemblies to warn children about the importance of taking safety instructions seriously. Even bloggers carrying out important research aren’t exempt from the rules. Or maybe this blog is being played out over the aeroplane’s PA system, as a warning to stubborn flyers who think they know better and refuse to heed the warning to keep your seat belt unfastened. As my voice played out over the plane’s speakers, Some people would be sobbing in their seat, as they recall where they were the day they heard the news about my body being found, smouldering in my seat with my belt still attached. How was I to know I’d get pins and needles? A group of women are gossiping together: “I heard he was a right sexist, chauvinistic pig.” Another group of people would be reminiscing about their favourite David Eagle moments: “Oh, I used to love his stories about his kettle. And of course we all remember his catchphrases, don’t we. Collie flower? I wouldn’t imagine it would taste very nice. Haha. Classic moments from a true comedy genius.” If you’re not a David’s Daily Digital Dollop regular then the last few sentences might have been a bit confusing, but if you’re not prepared to put in the groundwork then you can’t expect the rewards.

Just before we reached the plane, there was a lady checking our boarding passes. As I got closer to her in the queue, I heard her ask someone, “Is there anything dangerous in your bag sir?” to which the man simply responded, “no.” And that was it, he was allowed to pass. Then the person behind him was asked, “do you have any spare batteries in your bag?” to which the lady answered no, and again was allowed to pass. The person behind her was asked whether he had anything dangerous in his bag. He didn’t give an answer, but just marched purposefully onto the plane. Rather than calling him back, she just trailed off halfway through her question, and said nothing about it. The next lady was asked whether she had any spare batteries, and again, the answer was no.

We were getting close to the front of the queue. I did have a pack of batteries in my bag. Should I say something? I didn’t want to have to forfeit them, as I needed them in order to record the Dollops and things for The Young’uns Podcast. But at the same time, I didn’t want to be responsible for killing people. If taking batteries onto a plane is dangerous, then why didn’t someone say something earlier. We’d already had to go through numerous checks before we got to this point, which was right at the steps of the plane. It seems a bit stupid to wait until the last moment before asking people about batteries. And what did she mean by spare batteries? She wasn’t asking people if they had any batteries; it was whether they had any spare batteries. If the batteries are housed in my digital recorder, then does that mean that they aren’t classed as spare, but if they are loose then they that falls under the spare bracket? The batteries were altogether in a pack. Does that still make them spare? Or are they only classed as spare if they’re unpackaged and just lying around the bag loose?

There were still lots of people waiting to board, and I didn’t want to hold everyone up by asking loads of questions. But surely the question is too open to interpretation for me to know how to answer it, without posing further questions to establish whether my batteries are deemed spare or not, and whether they are classified as dangerous. I’m also a bit confused by the seeming casualness and randomness of her questioning. Sometimes she’d ask someone if they had anything dangerous in their bag, other times she’d ask about spare batteries, and sometimes she wouldn’t ask any questions at all, but just let them go through unchallenged. And seemingly, if someone doesn’t want to answer her questions then they can just walk off, and she’ll let them go without contest. Plus, what does she mean by “dangerous?” We’re not the experts, we’re just boarding a plane in order to get from A to B. How are we meant to know what she means by dangerous? Surely if she’s asking these questions and it’s important, then there should be checks, rather than relying on people’s memory to remember what’s in their bag, their correct interpretation of what’s meant by dangerous, and also their honesty. You shouldn’t be able to just say yes or no and then be allowed on the plane, or just walk off an ignore the question completely. The system, if you can call it a system, was clearly random and ridiculous.

Should I feel obliged to report my batteries even if she doesn’t ask? I mentioned it to Sean, and he suggested that I don’t say anything about them, even if I’m asked. He didn’t seem to be too concerned that he might be an accomplice in his own death. There were three people to go before me and Sean in the queue. The first wasn’t asked anything, but was just allowed to go, even though they had a large bag with them, that could have been bulging to bursting with batteries. The lady next in the queue was asked the battery question. I’d noted that so far, only ladies had been asked about spare batteries. Was this just a coincidence? Or another crazy random element of their ridiculous system? The man in front of me was asked whether he had anything dangerous in his bag, to which he responded that he didn’t, and he was allowed to pass. Then it came to me and Sean, and we were waved through without question, even though we both had bags, and I had batteries. In fact, we were waved through so quickly that she’d already moved onto the next person in the queue, who was being asked if they had anything dangerous in their bag. I mean, I could hold up the queue, even though I’d been dismissed, and explain to the woman my confusing battery situation, but given that there were potentially hundreds of people already on the plane with batteries and an assortment of dangerous items, I felt as if there was little point, so we just boarded the plane, with my batteries, and Sean’s collection of knives.

Fortunately, despite the haphazard safety checks, the plane touched down in Canberra without issue, and we’re ready to play our final Australian festival before heading home.

Download the audio version of today’s Dollop here

Last week I wrote about the issues booking into our hotel in Melbourne, and tonight we’ve just discovered that our tour management company given us the wrong information for our flight. In our information booklet it says that we are meant to be flying tomorrow, however we’ve just found out that our flight was actually today. We only found this out by chance, because we needed to book on an extra item of luggage, and when we typed in our flight number, we were informed that the flight had actually departed earlier that day.

In fairness to the tour management company, they were probably too busy making sure that we were armed with facts such as how to refer to female breasts and erections in Australian slang, and the incidental stuff like getting from A to B and having somewhere to stay kind of got a bit forgotten, which is understandable. Presumably next time around they’ll be able to concentrate on those little incidental things, safe in the knowledge that we’ve already been primed with the requisite list of phrases to be able to survive in such a vastly different country as Australia. Unless they decide to advance our Australian knowledge further by maybe providing a list of handy facts about the country, or maybe an instructional section on how to play the Didgeridoo, throw a boomerang, 101 essential Neighbours facts, 101 essential Home And Away facts, in which case we might run into similar problems next year. I would maybe start off with sorting out the flights and hotels, and then maybe if there’s time, compile the facts sections afterwards. But I suppose we’re in the Southern Hemisphere, and so it’s only natural that things should be done upside down.

Having said all this, if anyone from the tour management company is reading this, please don’t take any of this to heart and consequently refuse to work with us again, thus eliminating our folk career in Australia. I am gibing at you merely for mildly comic effect, and because nothing much else has happened today and I need to write about something for a daily blog that I’m doing for free for a few hundred people. I would delete what I’ve written, but it’s getting late, I am falling asleep as I write this, and so I really can’t afford to start this Dollop again. Please accept this as justification, and don’t pull the plug on our Australian folk career. I wonder though, if they did pull the plug, would our Australian folk career travel down the plughole in the opposite direction to how it would if we were in England? Actually, that’s an interesting thought, maybe the tour management company can answer that question in their next booklet.

I’m writing this part of the Dollop in bed at 6am in the morning. I can smell toast, which I assume is because breakfast is being cooked in the hotel. However, I remember hearing from someone that apparently one of the warnings that you’re about to have a stroke is being able to smell burnt toast. At the moment the toast doesn’t smell burnt, although I am now lying here paranoid, in case the toast does start smelling like it’s burning. I am pretty sure that breakfast isn’t served until 630 in this hotel, so is it a bit premature for me to be smelling toast? If you’re about to have a stroke then do you immediately smell burnt toast, or do you smell the toast cooking first and then burning? Any doctors reading this? I mean, it’s quite an intellectual blog I’m running here, so it’s likely.

If I smell burnt toast and I know that there is definitely no toast cooking in the vicinity, then that might suggest that I’m about to have a stroke. But if I smell toast that isn’t burnt, and there is no toast cooking in the vicinity, does that just mean that I’ve been given even more warning time, and that I should probably seek medical help before the toast starts to burn? Plus, it’s unlikely that I’ll know for certain that there is definitely no toast cooking going on anywhere near where I am. Perhaps I should keep my neighbours numbers to hand, so that any time I start smelling toast I can give them a quick call just to establish whether they’re making toast or not, or whether I should maybe start worrying.

“Hello Mrs Wilson, sorry to bother you at 3 in the morning, but I was just wondering whether you are making toast? No, I didn’t think it was likely at this time, but you never know do you, and what with the whole burnt-toast-smelling thing being an early indicator of a stroke, I thought I best check. Well, thank you Mrs Wilson, sorry to bother you for the third day running. Goodbye.”

“Hello Mrs Wilson, sorry to bother you again. I just thought I’d let you know that as soon as I put the phone down after talking to you, I sneezed, and a bit of toast flew out of my nose. Not sure how it got up there, but I did have toast three days ago. So I suppose that explains the toast smelling phenomena for the last three days. Sorry for all the phone calls Mrs Wilson, but you can’t be too careful can you? I thought I’d act while the toast was still smelling nicely cooked, just in case it started to burn. I mean I’d be a fool to wait until the toast started smelling like it was burning befor I did anything about it. Those extra few minutes might make all the difference. Best to be overcautious with these things, I’m sure you’ll agree Mrs Wilson. OK, well I’ll hang up now and let you get back to sleep. Goodbye Mrs … Hang on, I don’t seem to be able to move my left arm to put the phone down. Oh well, never mind, I must just have pins and needles, I’ll just use my right hand. I’m sure the pins and needles will be gone by the morning. I mean they don’t tend to last very long do they? But at least we figured out the toast smell, and I can rest easy tonight. Goodbye Mrs Wilson.”

Well, that was a rather haphazard Dollop. But I really must go now, as we have to be out of this hotel in the next hour and I still need to record the audio version. Thanks for reading.

Download the audio version of today’s Dollop here

The award for best heckle of our Australian tour so far goes to the man who interrupted one of our gigs by shouting, “how’s the football season going for the North lads?” I didn’t want to challenge the heckler too much, after my run-in with the lady the day before who accused me of being sexist. Perhaps she would be in the audience again, ready to pounce, and maybe she’d brought her friends along to back her up this time. Possibly even a journalist to get evidence for an article on the sexist chauvinist, masquerading as a left-wing folk singer, presumably in a bid to preach his sexism to a different kind of crowd, in the hope of converting lefties to his bigoted ideology. I’d have to be careful, just in case I challenge the heckler and then get lambasted because he was a Jew, or gay, or dyslexic, or walked with a limp.

“you wouldn’t have said that to him if he was a heterosexual Christian who is steady on his feet and has no issues with numbers or literacy, would you? Shame on you. People like you make me sick. And you probably took extra pleasure in putting him down because of his nut allergy, didn’t you? You evil bigot!”

You can hear our interaction with the football heckling man on our Australian Young’uns Podcast in April, although annoyingly the recording level on the digital recorder has been doing odd things and so some of the recordings are a bit distorted; but hopefully they’ll be listenable. Otherwise I might have to hire in some actors to pretend to be an
audience, and recreate the event, in order to get a none-distorted recording. The upside to doing this is that I’d be able to cheat, and add extra jokes into my dialogue, meaning that I’d come across even funnier and unbelievably quick-witted. By the time I’ve finished honing the script, the original two minutes of improvisation around a heckle could end up lasting for half an hour. Now I think about it, this is a tremendous idea, and I’m regretting openly blogging about it now, as many of you might consequently be suspicious about whether what you’re hearing is actually a genuine clip from a gig, or a professionally acted and perfectly crafted bit of fiction. I would delete this section, but it’s getting late and I can’t afford to reduce the word count. Hopefully you won’t remember, although you probably will because everything that I write in these Dollops is amazingly memorable; I am cursed by my own brilliance.

The people putting together our tour have produced a booklet for us which tells us what we’re doing and when. There’s also information about local attractions, places to eat and drink, fuel stations and other points of interest. Then at the back of the book is a glossary of “handy Australian phrases.” I think the tour management company think we’re a lot more sex drugs and rock and roll than we actually are, given their choice of phrases to include in their “handy” list.

Amber fluid: beer. A Blow in the bag: a breathalyser test. A Booze bus : police vehicle used for catching drunk drivers. A technicolor yawn : to throw-up, especially as a result of the over-consumption of alcohol and narcotics. A liquid laugh is another word for the act of vomiting. To crack a fat means to get an erection. Franger: condom. To have a naughty means to have sex. White pointers is a term to describe a woman’s breasts.

If only our tour management company knew that for the first week we were in bed and to sleep by about 10, after having a fairly civilised evening meal with maybe a couple of drinks. There has been no vomiting, no naked women, no sex or drugs. Although, in fairness, there’s still another week of the tour to go, so those phrases might prove their worth yet.

Before the gig, we were looking through the list of phrases. I thought that we could maybe play a game of guess the Australian phrase with one of the festival acts for the Young’uns Podcast, so we highlighted the interesting phrases, which were the ones that I listed above. We then went on stage, leaving the booklet on our green room table. Chances are that the stage manager saw the list of phrases in the booklet when she was in the green room. If she then noted the kind of phrases we’d deemed important to highlight, then she might see this as further evidence of the kind of man I am: a womanising, boozy lout. But I have not lived up to that phrases list in the slightest. The only thing I’ve had to drink today is water, a fresh orange juice and a jasmine tea. Perhaps next year, word will get out about how un-rock-and-roll we are, and they’ll provide us with a more suitable phrase list to cater for a jasmine tea drinking none-sex having bore who spends his spare time blogging.

After the sexism-accusation gig we went into a pub for a couple of Amber fluids. It wasn’t until we sat down that we noticed the artwork on the wall, above my head. Many of the images were of women showing off their white pointers and behinds. If the woman who accused me of being sexist had walked into this pub now, she would see a sight that would only corroborate her opinion of me, as I sat beneath a giant collage of naked and scantily clad women. She’d probably assume that I’d chosen this pub specifically because of its sexual wall art. She’d sell the story to the papers, who would also include my “sexist” remarks to the stage manager, as well as a statement from the stage manager who mentions my womaniser’s phrase book, and that would be it for my Australian folk career. So we hastily downed our pints and hurriedly left the pub, hoping that we hadn’t been spied, at which point the beer and my catholic guilt both curdled together in my stomach and were emitted in a giant technicolor yawn, which sprayed into the face of a passing lady, who turned out to be one of Australia’s most notorious feminists. Then I heard the sound of a camera shutter closing and a newspaper journalist shout, “say cheese,” and the thought of cheese caused me to do the most enormous liquid laugh, which covered the famous feminist. Oh well, it was fun while it lasted. Farewell Australia.

I’ll let you into a little secret: not everything in the last paragraph was 100 % true.

Today’s Dollop is an audio Dollop and consists of another song written and recorded by me at the age of eighteen.

Download it here

Back tomorrow.

Download the audio version of today’s Dollop here

We’ve just done our final gig at Blue Mountains festival in Australia, which went really well, as have all the gigs. It seemed as if the audience really enjoyed our sets, although there was one notable exception: a lady at our final gig who accused us of being sexist and chauvinistic.

I’ve not listened back to the recording of the gig yet, but no doubt we’ll feature it on The Young’uns Podcast when it returns in April, however I will give you the basic outline of what happened, and why this seemingly lone woman jumped to her conclusion.

One of the mic cables for my accordion seemed to be playing up, and so the stage manager came onto the stage during the set to fix it. I was in the middle of saying something and then she just appeared by me and knelt down to change the lead. I’d obviously realised what she was doing, but, becoming distracted by her sudden presence next to me, I forgot what I had been talking about. So, I changed tack. I turned to her and said something like, “I appreciate your enthusiasm but if you wanted a date with me you could have just waited until I got off stage.” The audience reacted well to this, and there was a good bit of laughter. I then turned to the audience and said something like, “she’s clearly keen, I mean, she’s kneeling at my feet.” Again, the audience responded with a good amount of laughter. There weren’t any audible tuts or hisses, or sounds of disapproval. The stage technician transferred the cable, and left the stage, and I took the opportunity to thank her and all the fabulous festival sound team. The audience applauded. Then, just as she reached the bottom of the stage steps, I turned to her and shouted my room number at her, and told her to be there for 8pm.

It was just a spontaneous bit of add libbing that occurred in the moment, and I think it was better than there just being an awkward silence while the lady made the changes. The stage manager didn’t seem to be upset or annoyed as far as I could tell, but there was one lady who rebuked us after the gig.

“You wouldn’t have said that if it was a man,” she said. We informed her that we probably would, after all, many people who’ve watched us over the years have assumed that the three of us are gay, or at least one of us is, and there used to be quite a bit of homoerotic banter during sets. In fact, Sean once pointed out that I was probably massively impairing my chances of becoming acquainted with any interested female fans, because I’ve most likely convinced them that I’m gay due to the things I’ve said on stage. Obviously, being the kind of pioneering, innovative, constantly evolving band that we are, the homoerotic banter is a bit old hat and not really as prevelent as it maybe once was. So I can therefore tell you that Sean’s hypothesis was incorrect, and it turns out that the reason female fans don’t approach me and declare love or lust is simply due to ambivalence, or perhaps even revulsion. And I meet thousands of eligible women in a year’s worth of gigging, which makes the general disinterest even more acute. Obviously I am being self-depricating for mildly comic effect. Yes, that’s definitely what I’m doing.

Anyway, the point is that I probably would have said the same thing to the stage manager if it was a man. But of course she didn’t believe me and didn’t accept that as an argument. I was surprised that she could listen to our songs and the things we said between them, and still come away with the view that I was sexist and chauvinistic. We sang Sidney Carter’s John Ball, about the priest who was viewed as a radical and executed for daring to say that all men and women should be equal. That was the very last song we sang, and the bit with the stage manager came right near the start of the gig, so she had heard an hour’s worth of our songs of equality and justice, and still came away with the impression that I was sexist. Perhaps she thinks I just pretend to care about these things for money, and I let my true colours inadvertently show themselves with that spontaneous ad lib with the stage manager.

Unless the lady wasn’t really complaining, but actually flirting with me, and maybe I missed all her cues, like I missed all the cues from all those other ladies who I assumed were disinterested. In fact, maybe the whole ambivalence thing that most women adopt towards me is also an example of flirting. Maybe all these women are going away from our gigs with broken hearts, because of my inability to pick up on their cues. In fact, they often get so disheartened and forlorn that they end up having to get off with someone else in the room, just minutes after talking to me. I mean, I must have hurt their pride so much that they fell into despondency and had to lower their standards by going with someone else, who’s obviously not as attractive as me, but at least it’s someone to fleatingly take away the pain of being rejected by David Eagle. To all those women who wanted me, then thought I was rejecting them and consequently ended up having sex with someone else, possibly marrying them and having children with them, I am truly and deeply sorry. It’s taken me all this time to realise what I’ve been doing, and I apologise wholeheartedly for fucking up your lives. Man, I feel like such a prick.

It’ll be interesting to hear the recording back. I don’t think I did, but maybe I called the stage manger “love” or “dear”, which are terms that might be taken as patronising, but I am pretty sure I didn’t. Nor did I pat her on the head in a patronising manner when she’d fixed the cable. Nor did I make any stupid jokes about the fact that she was a woman trying to solve a practical problem, and a woman’s brain couldn’t possibly carry out this task properly, and it was bound to go wrong and then we’d only have to get a man to step in and do it correctly. I didn’t say anything like that, because that would be stupid and clearly sexist. All I did was make a jocular reference in the moment, suggesting that the lady had bounded onto the stage in order to procure a date with me, which was clearly not true, as she was fixing a cable, as everyone could plainly see, and everyone knows that fixing a cable isn’t a sign of sexual interest, unless … hang on … Have I done it again?

It could be that the complaining lady has had bad experiences with sexism and that’s why she was maybe a bit over-sensitive. Or maybe you’re reading this and you are shocked by my ignorance and bigotry. Feel free to let me know your thoughts and leave a comment below. Obviously comments from men will be replied to first and will be given more weight than those from females, but that’s not sexist, it’s just common sense and logical, but you women wouldn’t understand that because you’re brains aren’t logical, are they?

Well I best leave this Dollop here, as I need to get in the shower and prepare myself just in case the stage manager took my invitation seriously.

Download today’s Dollop in audio form here

Good news for all you fans of the pissing dog-lady from Dollop 73; she is back. I could have written “she is bark,” and got a joke into the opening sentence, but this is not that kind of blog. We are much more sophisticated on David’s Daily Digital Dollop, we have high standards, as regular readers and listeners will attest. So the pissing dog-lady is back, not bark (although if you’re the kind of person who finds the replacement of the word “back” with “bark” funny, then I’ve technically written it now, a couple of times in fact, so feel free to laugh, but I’m warning you that you probably won’t have the faculties to appreciate this Dollop fully, understanding all its many clever nuances and complex intricacies. But you’re welcome to stay and try).

So the pissing dog-lady I wrote about in Dollop 73 is back. We saw her mentioned on the Blue Mountains festival programme, in fact, she got a bigger write-up than we did, which I’m obviously absolutely fine with, after all, she is a pissing dog-lady and we are just a folk group, and not even an Irish one.

Perhaps I will get the opportunity to interview her for the Dollop, and put some of the points raised in the blog to her. Unfortunately, by the time you’re reading this, the interview, if it happened, would have already taken place, otherwise I would invite questions from you all. Perhaps I could take her contact details and put your questions to her at a later date, although, I don’t want to hound her.

“Hahahah, I get it, hound, as in dog, because he’s talking about a dog, so the word “hound” takes on two meanings. My goodness, I can’t believe I didn’t know about this blog and this man before. I don’t know how he thinks of it. He could have said “bugging” instead of hound, and it would have essentially meant the same thing, except it wouldn’t be a joke because the word “bugging” has nothing to do with a dog. If he’d have been talking about a giant pissing insect-lady, then “bugging” would have been a perfect word to use, and again, hilarity would ensue. But David would know to do that, because he’s a comedy genius.”

Sorry, now and again this kind of thing happens, and I start somehow tapping into the thoughts of a reader, even though the blog hasn’t been written yet, meaning that I’m imagining the thoughts before they have happened. We’re still trying to work out what it all means, whether I am God, or whether this Dollop has somehow been parked on a less solid and more malleable part of the Internet, that causes time and space to bend around it in unusual ways. I’m trying to get scientists to research this anomaly, but they’re not biting.

“haha, biting, like a dog. A dog bites. Hahaha. Hang on, but he’s not talking about a dog now. Oh, I’m confused, was that a joke or not? Oh well, never mind, it was funny anyway. That’s probably one of the clever intricacies he talked about earlier, that I’m not meant to be intelligent enough to understand, except I have understood. Hahahaha. It’s funny, and it’s clever. I’m finding this so hilarious that I’m not even freaked out that he’s reading my mind. Oh shit, actually that is a bit scary.”

Sorry, it’s clearly a very bendy day today as far as time and space are concerned. I hope it’s not causing too much confusion. Anyway, I’ve tried getting scientific research done on this blog, in order to work out what’s going on. After all, we’ve had mind-reading, examples of time warping, and even the presence of a poltergeist. But still, in spite of all this evidence, they’re not biting, apart from a neuroscientist and Doctor who claims that I am merely a deranged man who is just making all this stuff up. This is obviously nonsense, and is clearly just a weak get-out from someone who isn’t intelligent enough to do the research. So here’s a challenge to any scientists who think that they’ve got what it takes to research this subject properly. As a reward for your efforts I’ll put you to the front of the queue to ask a question to the pissing dog-lady. And you can’t say than fairer that.

“Hahahahaha, fairer, as in “fur” like a dog has. Except it’s not really fur, is it? It’s hair. Hmmm, is that a joke. Maybe it’s one of the really clever intricate bits, and I am one of the few people to get it, because I am clearly intelligent. Hahahahah. It’s really clever and it’s funny, and it’s …”

Oh shut up you insufferable buffoon. Get out of my head.

Download today’s Dollop in its audio form here

After my blogging marathon on the Wednesday, we headed to our Melbourne gig, which was taking place in a jazz club. There were signs on the building declaring itself to be the home of jazz in Melbourne. Looking down the list of other acts who had appeared at the place seemed to indicate that we were the first folk group to have played there. Had they gotten us confused with another group with a similar name? Maybe there’s an experimental jazz trio called The Young Nuns, and the poor dyslexic secretary is going to get fired tomorrow morning when her mistake is realised.

Are we going to have to pretend to be an experimental jazz trio called the Young Nuns in order to save a dyslexic secretary’s job? I suppose you might think that this would be far too difficult a task, given that we sing unaccompanied folk songs, but surely we could just throw in a few discords and do a bit of scatting. After all, I know a thing or two about the art of scatting, having read one of the most popular tomes on the subject, The Dooby Do’s And Dooby Don’ts Of Scatting. If anyone contests that what we’re singing is experimental jazz, we could simply argue that the fact that they don’t recognise it as experimental jazz proves just how experimental it actually is, so much so that they’ve heard nothing like this in the experimental jazz world before. A watertight argument.

But it wasn’t the fact that we weren’t a jazz group that we needed to worry about, there was another surprise for us. Five minutes before we were due to go on, we saw one of the programmes. It turned out that they knew we weren’t a jazz group, as the programme described us as a folk group. We breathed a sigh of relief, although I think we were all a little disappointed that we wouldn’t get to our flailing acapella jazz solos that we’d spent the last two hours practising. But just because we weren’t expected to play jazz, it didn’t mean that we were out of the woods yet. Closer inspection of the programme highlighted another area for concern. The programme didn’t just describe us as a folk group, but said in big bold letters that we were an Irish folk group singing Irish songs. This is completely untrue; we don’t sing any Irish songs. There was no time to practise a completely new repertoire in under five minutes; we’d need at least ten minutes to pull that off.

Our MC in Melbourne was completely the opposite to the Port Fairy MCs, who spent twenty minutes chatting to us before our gig, writing down as much information about us as they could for their introduction. Our MC tonight had only popped in fleetingly an hour before we were due to start, and hadn’t asked us any questions at all. We’d just been instructed to listen out for the MC’s intro and then come onto the stage directly from our green room. There wasn’t anyone around to correct them about the fact that we weren’t an Irish folk group and that we wouldn’t be singing any traditional Irish songs, and even if there had been someone to tell, we were due on in three minutes so there wasn’t anything anyone could really do. It’s not as if they’d pull the plug on the gig due to the revelation.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I’m afraid the gig tonight has been cansilled. We were going to fire our secretary who was meant to book the experimental jazz trio, The Young Nuns, but then we let her off the hook when she informed us that the group she’d accidentallly booked were in fact an Irish folk group, and that it would be the day before Saint Patrick’s day. So we went ahead with the gig. But now we’ve just learnt that they’re not even Irish, they’re English. I know, I can completely understand why your booing. Believe me, I am just as livid as you, and I’ll fire the secretary first thing in the morning. Now I could let the Young’uns come out and play for you, but none of us want that do we? We’re not having this place polluted by English folk.”

Surely, the MC would have read our biog and has realised that we’re not an Irish band?

“Ladies and gentlemen,” came the voice of the MC, “please welcome, all the way from Ireland, The Young’uns!”

Fortunately, it turned out that most of the audience knew more than our MC and the gig organisers, and were aware that we were English. We asked how many people in the audience were expecting an Irish band singing Irish songs, and no one said yes. In fact, most of the audience knew we were from Teesside, and there were quite a few people who originally came from North East England at the gig. It felt like we were playing to an audience who’d seen us many times before, even though none of them had. Quite a few people had seen us at the Port Fairy festival last weekend, and others had heard us on the radio or read about us. People were shouting out requests for songs, and gratifyingly they were songs that we actually sang, so it was evident that we were known by the people there. It was really heartening to note that we’d travelled thousands of miles to the other side of the world, yet eighty people had turned up at a week day gig to see us, and clearly knew who we were.

There was no mention from the MC about the Irish thing, even though we frequently joked about it on stage. His intro to our second half was simply, “ladies and gentlemen, please welcome back to the stage, The Young’uns.” I thought that he might have made a jocular reference to the error, and maybe introduced us by saying something like, “ladies and gentlemen, please welcome, all the way from Brazil, The Young’uns!” But alas not.

Having said all this, it was a great gig and a really good venue. Everyone at the venue was really friendly and accommodating, and fed us the most delicious food before the gig. The mix-up in the programme and with the MC didn’t impact negatively on the gig at all, in fact if anything it gave us something to talk about and served to get the audience on our side straight away. I mention this in case there’s someone from the venue reading, who has taken this blog as a complaint. It’s not. However, it’s more interesting to write about mix-ups and oddities than it is for me to write about nice food and friendly staff. But, if you do want me to blog about how brilliant a venue you run, then we can discuss a fee. I am also open to bribes if there are things that people wanted me not to blog about, to protect their reputation. For instance, if the MC didn’t want me to mention him then he could have bought my silence. It’s already worked for Jools. Notice that I’ve not said anything about her for a couple of weeks. Ah, damn, I shouldn’t have mentioned that, sorry Jools. I’ll issue you a refund.

Download today’s Dollop in its audio form here

The absolute ridiculousness of this 366 consecutive daily blogs project has really become apparent over the last twenty-four hours. The other two went straight to sleep after getting back from our evening out in Melbourne. I thought that I would quickly check tomorrow’s Dollop before going to sleep, so I sat on the bed with the laptop. The next thing I was aware of was waking up at 7am, lying on the bed with the laptop on top of my stomach. In fact, I’m not even sure at first if I realised that I’d been asleep, for as soon as I was back into consciousness I immediately began reading the Dollop from the point that I’d gone out of consciousness a few hours earlier. It appeared that I’d fallen asleep halfway through writing a sentence. Seconds after waking, I had completed the sentence, although, there were still another 290 days to go before I’d truly finished my sentence. You see what I’ve done there? Using the word sentence in two different contexts in order to create a bit of wordplay. You’re in safe hands my friends; as you can see, I know what I’m doing.

I’d written just over 700 words. It wasn’t the most interesting or funny blog that I’d done, but it wasn’t bad. I didn’t really have time to do any more work on it, it was now 7am, and we’d planned to go out at 9 to do some touristy things in Melbourne, which we’d planned to do yesterday, but then all the shenanigans happened. I had less than two ours to tidy what I’d written up, record the audio version, edit out all my mistakes caused by my inept Braille reading, upload the audio and written versions, promote it on Facebook and Twitter, and code the RSS feed to update the podcast. This was the 75th Dollop, featuring the peculiar sounds that my nostrils were making, which I hadn’t yet edited down from the half an hour I recorded. It would be madness to think that anyone would want to listen to half an hour of nose noises; although a minute would clearly be completely sane, normal and fine.

However, as I was reading through what I’d written, I was struck with inspiration, and before I could stop myself I’d written another thousand words on top of the 700 I’d written yesterday. By this point the other two were up and getting ready to go out. I now had an hour to do everything I needed to do, plus it was going to take me even longer to read and edit now, because I’d increased the Dollop by 150 %. While the other two were brushing teeth, showering and readying themselves to go out, I had only just finished writing the Dollop, the length of which could have sufficed for two or three blog posts.

The other two said that they would wait until I’d finished, but I knew that it was going to be another two hours before I was done, so I told them to go into the city without me. I had come all the way to Australia, and rather than going out and experiencing the place, I had chosen to sit in a hotel, editing “highlights” of a half an hour recording of my nose making weird sounds. To be honest, I think the word “highlights” might be stretching it a bit. It was essentially just someone’s nose making odd noises when he breathed out, nothing to write home about, which is precisely what I was doing, only instead of writing home, I was writing to hundreds of people on the Internet, and I wasn’t just writing, I was recording it as audio as well.

The plan had been to set off for Melbourne early, spend the day in Melbourne and then come back at about 4pm ready for that night’s gig. As the other two pointed out to me, not only would I be passing up the opportunity to go out and do something in a country I’d never been in before, but also I had no way of really going anywhere or doing anything once I’d finished the Dollop. We didn’t have any cash on us, as we are using The Young’uns card, so I wouldn’t be able to get any food. But the prospect of sitting in a room alone and hungry for hours while the other two went out exploring Melbourne was still better than the notion that my nasal noises wouldn’t be released in time, meaning that I’d fail the David’s Daily Digital Dollop challenge, only a fifth of the way through.

I finished the Dollop, had a shower and then replied to people’s comments on the last few Dollops. My day had so far consisted purely of Dollop-related matters.

Here’s another example to demonstrate how obsessive a project this has become. I realised that I hadn’t added the correct tag to the start of the nasal noises audio file, meaning that it wouldn’t show up in stats and I would have no idea how many listeners it had gained. I was genuinely annoyed at myself for forgetting to add the file to the stats service. I swore out loud and called myself some insulting words, before I realised what an idiot I was for caring about any of this, and that my life priorities and sense of perspective had clearly gone spectacularly and worryingly out of kilter. This realisation caused me to burst into a fit of laughter at how ridiculous I and this whole thing was. I’m not sure whether the realisation of my insanity helps make me more sane, although the fact that I was in a room by myself giggling might redress that; also, does the fact that I’m aware of my insanity, but that I keep doing the insane thing anyway, make me more or less sane? The answer is less, clearly, less.

I thought that I should maybe have a little relax and do something none-dollop-related for a couple of hours, otherwise I would definitely be driven mad by the whole thing. But then a message appeared on my laptop that filled me with horror: The WIFI would only last for another three hours. I couldn’t be certain that the venue we were playing at tonight would have WIFI. There was nothing for it but to quickly make another Dollop. I’d literally just finished writing and recording Dollop 75, and now I was about to immediately start writing Dollop 76. I had three hours to write, record and publish the Dollop, as it was a race against the WIFI time bomb.

It would have to be a short Dollop, as I couldn’t afford to spend too long writing it, as then I wouldn’t have time to record, edit and publish. But my insanity proved itself to be alive and kicking once again, as I ended up writing what may well have been my lengthiest Dollop yet, over 2000 words. When I’d finished typing, I checked the time, and realised that I now only had an hour before the WIFI would be disconnected. For some reason, I had made my task even more difficult than it already was going to be, by writing the longest blog post that I’d ever written, when I was meant to write one of the shortest.

I powered through the recording and the editing, and managed to get the Dollop published a minute before the WIFI was lost. Success! Well, I suppose it depends on your definition of the word success, but I had done it.

The previous Dollop had only been posted at 11pm the day before, UK time, and now, because of the WIFI time bomb, I’d released another Dollop a mere six hours later. In less than 24 hours I’d written and published over 3500 words. Most people would have probably gone to bed by the time I’d released Dollop 75. By the time they’d woken up there were now two more Dollops.

I need to stop typing today’s Dollop now, because we need to go out at 430, and it’s just gone 3, and I still need to tidy it up, record, edit and do all the other publishing bits and bobbs before we head out. It’s another race against time. If you’re reading this on the Thursday, then you know I’ve succeeded.

Download the audio version of today’s Dollop here

Yesterday was meant to be fairly relaxed. We didn’t have a gig, and so we planned to have a nice leisurely day in Melbourne, seeing some sights and being tourists, which we don’t get much chance to do as we’re performing so much whenever we go abroad. I didn’t write any of the Dollop in the car on the way to Melbourne, for the reasons mentioned in yesterday’s Dollop: I’d only just finished the last one and didn’t have the energy or inspiration to start writing another one straight away. But we should be in Melbourne by 11am, and once we’d had some food and experienced some of the city, I’d probably have something to write about, and also possess the energy to be able to do it. But when we got to Melbourne airport, things took an unexpected course.

We needed to take a particular shuttle bus service to the car hire place, to pick up our car. However, the information about what service we needed and where we needed to go was in Michael’s email inbox. He’d thought that the email had saved onto his phone so that he could view it offline, but it hadn’t. Never mind, we’d could just connect to the airport’s free WIFI and access the details from Michael’s inbox. However, the WIFI network appeared to be down, and was telling us that there was currently no connection available to the Internet, and to please try again soon, which we did, repeatedly for about an hour. Eventually, Michael managed to get online and access the email.

We found the information we needed and then walked around the airport trying to locate where our specific shuttle bus picks up from. After half an hour of walking around, we still hadn’t found it. Michael went off to try and find someone who worked in the airport to ask them where we needed to go, while Sean and I stood with the trolley loaded with instruments, bags and suitcases.

As soon as Michael rounded the corner, Sean saw the shuttle bus we wanted across the road. Fantastic. Except Michael had gone, and we couldn’t get a hold of him because none of us were able to make phone calls in Australia. I tried to connect to the WIFI again, whilst Sean ran across the road to talk to the driver, and see if we could stall him a bit while I tried to get in contact with Michael, or at least find out how long we’d have to wait for the next bus. A minute later, Sean came running back over the road and said that the driver couldn’t wait for another minute while we tried to get in touch with Michael, as there were others on the bus who needed to be dropped off, but the good news was that the buses were every five minutes. But the bad news was that the WIFI was playing up again, and we were unable to contact Michael to tell him to come back.

An hour passed, and with it went twelve buses, which we were unable to get on because we were still waiting for Michael. No sooner had bus twelve pulled away, Michael rounded the corner. The reason for his delay had been because there had been more dramatic developments.

He had been stood in a queue for about fifteen minutes, waiting to speak to someone about where to get the shuttle bus from, when his phone vibrated, announcing an email. The email was from the car hire company, and was headed, “confirmation of your cancellation.” The message said that they had received and processed our cancellation, and that our money would be refunded, minus the admin fee for dealing with our booking. But we hadn’t cancelled the booking.

Michael needed to talk to the car hire company, but none of us had anyway of making phone calls.

He tried making a call with Skype, but the Internet was very patchy and the first few attempts failed. Eventually, he got through to someone and explained the situation. The man at the car hire company informed him that the cancellation had occurred as part of an automated process carried out by their computer system. This was because they didn’t actually have any cars available. Apparently the reason the booking went through fine yesterday was because the company outsource their online booking to a third-party IT company who had allowed the booking to occur, not realising that they were fully booked. Apparently this happened because this is also an automated computer process. It was only when someone from the car hire company got into the office that they realised what had happened. Rather than sending an email explaining the issue, they simply sent a generic cancillation email, which is an automated email that is sent whenever a cancillation is processed.

So as a result we were now stuck in an airport, with no means of getting to where we needed to go. Michael tried remonstrating with the person on the phone, but the man said he could only apologise, but on the plus side, he said that he would reimburse us the admin fees – how very kind, that’ll console us while we’re aimlessly wondering the streets of Melbourne trying to get to our hotel, an hour’s drive away.

Michael was just about to hang up, defeated, when the man announced that he’d just heard that there actually was a car available, which he hadn’t realised before because it hadn’t yet been registered back onto the computer system. Brilliant, so it should be straight forward from here. Well, not quite. When the cancellation is processed, the purchaser’s details are gone. This meant that Michael had to go through loads of information on the phone, re-providing his insurance details and so on. Eventually it was all sorted, and Michael returned to us.

The three of us then stood waiting for the next shuttle bus. Five minutes later it arrived, but when we tried to get on it, we were told that there wasn’t enough room with our instruments and luggage, and that we’d have to wait for the next one. The same thing happened for the next three buses. It was only when we were aboutt to be turned down for a fourth time that I suddenly realised that Michael could go on the bus by himself, pick up the hire car and drive back to pick us up. It was such an obvious solution, but the three of us were so drained, hungry and stressed that we hadn’t thought of it before.

Fifty minutes later, Michael was back at the airport in the hire car to pick us up, except there was another snag. The hire company, although managing to locate a car, had apparently got no satnavs left. We were in a major city, with no clue of where to go and no Internet in order to get a map. We drove through the city, following signs, but this got us hopelessly lost. After an hour of driving, we had no idea where we were. We were so hungry that we had to stop and get something to eat. Fortunately, as well as providing sustenance, the cafe also supplied us with WIFI, which meant we were able to get a map and see where the heck we were and where to go. Consulting the map provided us with two bits of knowledge: firstly, that we’d been all of two minutes away at one point in the journey, but unfortunately the second thing we discovered was that we were now forty minutes away.

Eventually, we found the hotel, and breathed a sigh of relief. But that sigh was premature, for the saga hadn’t ended yet. When we tried to check into the hotel, they didn’t have our names on record. The booking hadn’t been done through us, but by the people organising our tour. We assumed that the rooms had been booked in our names, which had been the case for the last two hotels on this tour. But they couldn’t find those names on the computer. We then tried a few more names, giving the names of various people working for the tour company, just in case the booking had been made in their names.

“I’m afraid we don’t have anything on our computer for Cooney, Eagle or Hughes sir.”

“Er, try Hawthorn.”

“No sir, nothing for Hawthorn.”

“Try Crawford.”

“No, I’m sorry sir, nothing.”

“Er, er, try Simpson.”

It must have seemed like an elaborate scam, just going into a hotel and trying to guess the name of someone who might have made a booking, in a bid to have a free night in a hotel, pretending to be the person who’s name you’d managed to hijack.

“ah yes, here we go again, the old “we’re in a folk band and the rooms were booked by our tour company” routine. We’ve seen it all before. I’m surprised they haven’t said Smith yet. I mean surely if you’re going to pull off this scam and try and find a name of someone who has booked to stay, Smith has got to be your first and most obvious choice, the idiots. And they’re not fooling anyone with those mock English accents. Terrible acting.”

None of the names we tried worked. We’d have to get in touch with someone at the tour company and see what was going on. In order to do that we would need WIFI, so we asked the man at the check-in desk if we could access WIFI, but he said that we had to be checked in before they could give us the WIFI details. At this point, Michael, who had already been the recipient of a booking problem that day, snapped at the receptionist that this was ridiculous. Surely they could make an exception, baring in mind that we were trying to check in, but were unable to, and needed WIFI in order to do so. We couldn’t check in without the WIFI, and yet we were being told that we couldn’t have the WIFI because we hadn’t checked in.

Apparently the reason he couldn’t give us WIFI access wasn’t because he was being churlish and sticking rigidly to company policy, but because the system was all automated, and the WIFI could only be accessed as a guest by entering the name that we’d booked with, which obviously we didn’t know. So we had to use the reception computer to sign into Michael’s emails and get the information we needed.

There then followed about an hour’s worth of phone calls. We couldn’t speak to the main person responsible for organising the tour because he was currently on a plane, and other people were unsure of what the situation was. Eventually the issue was resolved, and two hours after arriving at the hotel we were granted access to our rooms.

It was now 6pm. We’d set off at 630 in the morning, and had assumed we should be at the hotel for about 11am. Seven hours after the estimated time of arrival, we were finally in our rooms.

We were all really hungry and needed a drink or two after the riggers of the day. The other two had an hour’s rest, and I typed up that day’s Dollop. I didn’t have time to write, record and upload it in that time, that would have to wait until tomorrow, still today in Britain. By the time we got back from our evening out in Melbourne, we were all really tired. I might have had the staying power to record and release the Dollop before heading to bed, but the other two were clearly tired, and I didn’t think it would be very fair to force them to listen to me rambling about my nostrils, which was the exciting subject covered in yesterday’s Dollop. So I went to bed. What happened the next day will be told to you, should you choose to find out, in tomorrow’s Dollop, but it is a story that clearly demonstrates just how ridiculous this crazy 366 consecutive daily blogs project has got. But I’ll divulge tomorrow.

Download today’s Dollop in audio form here

Just because I’m at the other side of the world it doesn’t necessarily mean that I’ll be blessed with amazing tales of adventure to impart everyday. Unfortunately the mundane, and logistics are all concepts that still exist in Australia, and today has been a logistical one, essentially consisting of getting from A to B.

At 4am I got out of bed, finished yesterday’s Dollop, recorded it and then published it. At 630 we began our journey to Melbourne to take the hire car back to the airport and pick up another one for the next part of our trip.

I’d planned to spend the car journey writing today’s Dollop, but given that I’d only just written a Dollop a few hours earlier, I didn’t feel as if I had anything new to write about. All that had happened since 10pm last night, which was when I finished writing yesterday’s Dollop, was that I went to bed, woke up, tidied up the written Dollop, recorded it, uploaded it and got in a car.

My brain didn’t feel at all alert. I’d had nothing to eat yet, and I’d hardly slept, as I kept waking myself up by the sound of my nose, which was making some very odd noises when I breathed. For some reason, rather than simply blowing my nose and then going back to sleep, I decided that it would be a good idea to record the peculiar sounds my nose was generating, reasoning that I could include it in the audio Dollop. Now that I am awake, the notion that people would want to listen to the sound of my nose, or anyone’s knows for that matter, making a series of odd squeaking noises is an absurd one. But at in the morning, after only two hours of sleep, it seemed like a good idea.

So I got out of bed, and stumbled around my room, a bit dazed and confused due to the dark and sleep deprivation. It took me a couple of minutes to remember where I’d put the recorder, yet that wasn’t enough time for my brain to suddenly think, “hang on a minute, you’ve got to be up early tomorrow. You’ve hardly had any sleep at all this week, and you’re patently in need of it, as is being clearly illustrated by the fact that you’re out of bed, searching for a digital recorder to record the sound of your nose.”

Eventually I found the recorder and got back into bed to record the strange nasal sounds. Rather than quickly recording the noises, then blowing my nose and falling back asleep, I turned into a bit of a director, experimenting with different techniques to create different sounds. I played around with applying pressure to certain parts of my nose, in order to change the air flow and thus alter the timbre. I was rather proud of my seagull impression, until I realised that I was a thirty-year-old man recording himself trying to do animal impersonations with his mucus-filled nostrils, and that I then planned on sharing these noises with other people, and that realisation took the edge off my ‘achievement’ somewhat.

However, I’ve recorded it now, so I’ll put it at the end of this Dollop, in case you fancy giving it a listen. I doubt that many of you will click on it, but I might be wrong. This might turn out to be my biggest hit yet. Sometimes there is just no knowing, although I think in this case there probably is. But I’ll keep an eye on my web stats, just in case this does turn out to be my most popular Dollop yet.

Perhaps the Dollop will go viral, or maybe it’s just my nose that will go viral, due to my relentless prodding and poking, as I try and emulate more and more animals that my now millions of fans are requesting to hear. And I feel obliged to continue despite my nasal virus, especially given that I’ve been asked to appear on the Children In Need TV programme and take part in a telethon whereby people donate money to hear me do impressions of things with my nose. I don’t have it in my heart to say no, when I do have it in my nose to say yes, and save lives. The fate of so many disabled children rests upon my shoulders, or more accurately, my nose. I desperately need some medical intervention to stop my nose from eventually falling off, but ironically I can’t afford the treatment because I’m spending all my time and energy saving lives for free. And when I do get a couple of hours to rest I just don’t have the energy to do any more nose noises in order to raise funds for my much needed treatment.

But then one day my career ends in an epic fashion. I am asked to perform for the queen. There is much head scratching, partly because I am not at all a monarchist and don’t want to be seen as supporting a system which I see as a pointless totem of inequality and unjustness, but also because one of the side effects of my virus is a ridiculously itchy head. In the end I decide to accept the offer, as it would provide me with enough money to fund my medical treatment.

Before I get to actually meet the queen, I have to listen to a lecture from a member of palace staff, who tells me about proper protocol for my discourse with her. Apparently this is a thing that always happens before people are allowed to meet the Queen, according to a few people I know who’ve been to Buckingham Palace. Charity workers who have seen some of the most harrowing things, helping refugees, orphans and disabled children, heroes of World War II, pioneering scientists who’s work is saving lives, all have to receive a lecture about proper protocol for addressing the queen. What an absolute insult. As if any of that matters. The only reason the queen isn’t an orphan or a refugee is purely because of chance. She happened to pop out of the right hole at the right time. Whereas the people she’s meeting have popped out of much less lucrative holes and yet succeeded in doing remarkable things that provide value and benefit others’ lives, yet it is they who get patronised by a lecture telling them how to bow properly, and that you say “mam, as in jam,” not “marm, as in arm,” which is apparently one of the points of the lecture. You also get told that you should call her “your majesty” the first time you address her, but after that you are OK to call her mam, but don’t you dare say “marm as in arm.” Have you got all that, peasant?

“I’m afraid we have a problem. This man refuses to bow. He is therefore not permitted to meet our gracious queen.”

“But he’s Professor Stephen Hawking, one of our planet’s leading thinkers and scientists.”

“Yes, but that’s hardly the point is it? He won’t bow.”

“He’s paralysed!”

“And he won’t say mam, as in jam, he keeps saying marm, as in arm. The sheer impertinence.”

“Well that’s hardly his fault, he’s using a speech synthesiser.”

“Look, he’s clearly a flagrant anti-monarchist. He refuses to bow, uses the wrong phonemes to refer to the queen, and what’s more, he’s clearly never stood up and sang the National Anthem. People like him make me sick.”

It was me, however, who was responsible for making the queen sick, for at the moment that I met the queen, I did something that I hadn’t allowed myself to do for twenty years, since I discovered my nasal-based talent. It’s important to keep the nose full of mucus, in order to get the best performance, and I soon discovered that the more mucus the nose has, the better the performance. I’ve therefore been vigilant about keeping the precious mucus inside my nose. I have therefore not blown my nose for twenty years, and take to wearing a clothes peg fixed on my nose when I am not performing. However, I was told that I couldn’t wear a peg on my nose to meet the queen, and so I was forced to take it off. But my nose was not used to being unpegged for so long, and in my efforts to concentrate on saying the right thing to her majesty, I let my guard down. Which is why when I met the queen, I sneezed all over her, drenching her in twenty years of mucus. Then to make matters even worse, when the queen had wiped the snot from her eyes, she saw my dismembered nose, lying on the floor – the virus had finally taken its toll. This caused the queen to throw-up, creating even more mess.

Of course, many people saw this as a deliberate act of descent. There were mass protests, calling for me to be tried for treason. The term “sneezin treason” became ubiquitous, being frequently used by broadcasters and journalists. People in the government were voicing their opinion that my motives needed to be investigated, leading to “sneezegate” becoming the most commonly used word in the media that year. The sneeze also acted as a rallying cry for an anti-monarchist movement, and there were calls for a revolution, starting with an overthrowing of the monarchy. David Cameron was livid, and did a YouTube video wearing one of his finest suits and ties, in order to condemn me and my ilk. Russell Brand set up a new YouTube channel called the a-choos, quoted some spiritual philosophers, used some big words and called for revolution.

Sadly, as much as I’m sure you’d love to hear more of this story, I have to go now, as we’ve arrived at our destination. However, don’t despair, because I’ll leave you with a minute of edited highlights from my nasal noises recording. I think you might also enjoy this Chloe because you can hear me breathing directly into the recorder.

Download the recording here