Sunday, February 07, 2010

Herring Herring Herring Herring Collins! Herring Collins! Herring Herring Herring

A very Herring-heavy week, with a few exquisite shavings of Collins delicately scattered on top. Nom nom nom. Or, as they would have it, but I am absolutely never going to write because I'm not going to be won over by their childish nonsense, nyum nyum nyum.


So first on Monday was the Collings and Herrin 100th-ish-maybe podcast, live from the Leicester Square theatre. I've had my ups and downs with their podcast since I discovered them last September. Oh, the good times, as Andrew Collins told the story of how a slightly botched handshake with a friend as an adolescent led to a brief moment of tender hand-holding, and I was rendered helpless while walking to work, paralysed with embarrassment, as abundant laughter which would have been airy and pleasant if I had allowed it to escape my body condensed internally into a high-pressure plasma stream and make me squeak like a tea-kettle in a whispering gallery. And the bad times - well, I'll just say "baby made of shit", and allow the kaleidoscope of wonderful imagery that provokes dance painfully across your mind's eye.

But frankly, they have been talking about everything and nothing for 100 hours and that's the only bad thing I can recollect, and they do it for free, and are peerless in an increasingly crowded field which had been mostly planted because of them anyway, so what else can you do but heartily approve, and give thanks, and have the perverse fanboy hope that they don't get so successful and popular that they stop doing it?

And so generous are the pair that our evening's entertainment was not just the podcast; nay, nay, thrice nay! We were also treated to a bit of Herring stand-up, and Mr Collin's Secret World of Secret Dancing. I was particularly taken by this demonstration of how to listen to your iPod and dance like your soul's on fire while maintaining the outer stillness and serene grumpy-face of the average commuter. It's nice to see A-Col doing stand-up...he's obviously a naturally funny and charming fellow, and he communicates that loud and clear through the medium of miming a record scratch on his man-bag, which is, let's face it, not an easy thing to do. (Incidentally, I covet that man-bag. Passionately covet it all the way into next week, if you know what I mean, which I certainly don't.)

I do something similar myself to secret dancing myself, but instead of dancing, I favour a secret music video approach. Thusly: as I walk, I'm making a video, so depending on the song in question, I'm either strutting like Shara Nelson in South Central LA or bounding about like a Chris Martin-based puppy, singing without opening my mouth and casting meaningful looks at cameras that aren't there. Much fun to be had doing that, there is.

And then there was the podcast, which was a fun but very different experience in a live scenario. I'd got a ticket rather late which meant I was standing by the bar, in what would have been a rather cool and louche manner (all James Bond, sipping a martini and removing panties with a glance), were it not for being flimsy and bedraggled from a day of gastrointestinal suffering (all John Hurt three seconds before the profusion of groo). So I was a bit removed from the main audience banter; not so much sitting in Richard's attic and joining in with the fun as scaling the drainpipes on his house to try and peer in through the Velux blinds. But still much precarious enjoyment was squeezed from the 1 hour 6 mins. Mainly because they genuinely seem to respect and enjoy each other's company, and in a world of two-man comedy where often scripted bonhomie is used to paper over deep pustules of resentment and egotism, that's as refreshing as a glass of Andrew's salts isn't.

Much love. I will stop short of calling for the much-threatened bumming, and instead give them a portmanteau name like Brangelina. Richdrew. Andard. Richancoldrewhellins. Sorted.

Then, a mere two days and six paragraphs later, I was back down Leicester Square way - this time with a functional digestive system and beer and actual company - to see Hitler Moustache, Richard's Edinburgh show. Properly reviewed by proper critics in proper places elsewhere I can't be arsed to link to, summed up by one comment from a friend: "Bloody hell, comics these days are so clever and funny, aren't they? Bastards." Thought-provoking yes, bracingly ideological without hectoring yes, funny bits about bleeding dogs in Shepherd's Bush yes, and all with a free velcro Hitler moustache of your own. I got a white one which I did not in any way, shape or form stick on one of Richard's posters over his real moustache, because that would be desperately unoriginal and unfunny. In summary: a chuffing good night's work all round.


Blog post title note: modelled after "Bunny bunny bunny bunny whoops! Bunny whoops!" etc, which is about as much fun as you can have with children and your hands this side of police intervention.


Ishouldbeworking said...

Aah. They're a pair of sweethearts, aren't they? Not in the sense of actually being each other's sweetheart, though. Let's get that cleared up straight away.

justrestingmyeyes said...

Totally. Although sometimes, I do wish they were. And that I could watch.

Oh dear, that's just filthy. I have no idea where that came from. Sorry. *slaps own wrist*

justrestingmyeyes said...

Wow, thanks, Mr/Madame Spambot who somehow got through my word verification. Grr.

In case you're wondering, this is a rough translation of what he/she said:

"Bustles about one day crossed finally, has a look at the article transformation mood, also helps you to add an oil"

Like, wow, dude. That's deep.

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