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.

Damn.

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.

Yes!

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.

About Four Blog Posts Away From Eyebrow-Raising Fanfic

I seem to be suffering from an alarming surplus of love at the moment. Possibly as a counterbalance to the amount of hatred generated by, and if I could type through gritted teeth I would at this moment, Charley Boorman, I am falling head over heels at every opportunity with many amazing things. Well, I say they're amazing. I would though, I'm in love with all of them. Here is a non-exhaustive list:

A) Guy Garvey and Elbow-mbo in general. Hooray for the Mercury win! I discovered to my surprise recently that I owned and liked all of their albums - I always assumed I had missed a few along the way - which I guess makes me a proper fan. But recently, one song in particular has invaded my brain and refuses to leave. But not in the usual mentally jarring, nagging, earworm way; rather, it gently plays on repeat in the background of my thoughts, lending absolutely everything I experience a melancholic hue. Great for mooching along grey London streets, but not, say, for eating a really good houmous. The song is The Bones Of You, and it is about as perfect a song as you will ever care to hear (although I am a complete sucker for anything with a 12/8 signature). It's about what happens when you hear music which reminds you of a tragic love affair, and boy, does it nail it. I have read huge great gushes of praise about Mr Garvey recently - someone referred to him as "the last drunken poet" or something, which I think is pretty gross and makes him sound like what the NME imagines Pete Doherty is (or did a few years ago, I dunno, whenever I read NME I always feel like I'm being repeatedly being told how completely out of touch and stupid I am, like I'm standing in the middle of some cretinous Camden pub wearing a full Saturday Night Fever disco ensemble). He may be a fantastic lyricist or there may be better ones, but that misses the salient point, that he has a fucking gorgeous voice and I could listen to it all day. In fact at the moment I am. And I love him totally.

B) Andrew Collins. Strange! One of those people who has been in the background of the general cultural chatter in my life for years, Collins and Maconie, then popping up on clip shows and pretending to be Mark Kermode, but suddenly I have discovered his blog and devoured almost the entire two-year archive in a matter of hours. I didn't realise he'd written almost everything in the world, including Not Going Out which I think's actually funny thank you very much, and been editor of Q when it was good! I should be worshipping at his feet, Brooker-style! And now, I am. Also, he does a good podcast with Richard Herring, which just involves the two of them talking for an hour and is somehow the top end of hilarious. I imagine most people "reckon" that if someone taped their pub conversation for an hour, it would be pure-spun gold comedy fit for a king. And I know that most people are really, really wrong. But these guys are the exception. That's what comes of being professional comedians, I expect. Note: Mr Herring does not appear in my lovelist, due to some misremembered slight from the dim and distant past - he's done something at some point which was specifically designed to specifically annoy specifically me, which is a rather paranoid-schizophrenic thought. But! Still true. Anyway, Andrew Collins - I love him totally.

C) Sue Perkins. Proving it's not just men that have suddenly captured my heart, which personally I find reassuring, as it means that it's not some grotesque hormonal response to the rapidly approaching day when my ovaries crumble into a fine dust, making me fall in love more or less at random in the hope that something, somewhere will impregnate me. Although, what IS love, eh? A topic for another day, is what it is. Anyway, lovely Sue, who's just fabulous and wonderful, and I didn't even watch that conducting reality show she was in. And I don't even begrudge her the amount of reality shows she appears to be doing at the moment. Mostly, I just adore the "Supersizers go..." shows she does with Giles Coren (who was finagling his way into this list before the whole fuck-gate thing and before I realised that he might be an overprivileged insufferable cunt, cunningly disguised by a pixie beard. I just said might be, Giles. Save your bile for the lowly underpaid footsoldiers in your business called show) She is quite possibly the most quick-witted and amusing laydee on the box at the moment, and she does it by just being funny, not being funny&ditzy, or funny&sexy, or funny&havingtotalkaboutperiods. Yikes. Getting into dangerous feminist territory here. I'll back away from that cos I wouldn't know what I was talking about, and just say, Sue - I love her totally.

The usual objects of my ridiculous affections still loom large, of course. They know who they are. Or at least, they will when they receive the special packages I've just sent them. You're right, that IS made out of my own hair!

Oh, now. That's just nasty.

**UPDATE** Stop press. I changed my mind about R Herring, cos I've just discovered his blog, and it's very nice. Plus he writes it every day about the minutiae of his life and still manages to make it amusing, which I admire utterly. Plus plus, he lives very near me and I have occasionally seen him out and about, so maybe I should seek him out and say hello, which he can then write about on his blog, which I can then write about on my blog, and we can all merge into a self-regarding mobius loop which should, if we're lucky, get sucked directly into hell. So congratulations, Richard. You're on my list. This is really not good news for you.