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Into old London town this morning for an interview for a newspaper profile. There's always the chance of Gregg Wallacing yourself with these things, but the journalist seemed to be a fan of my work - or at least to have seen loads of it, though as a comedy critic that is his job. Given the subject of the next tour (and to be fair, quite a lot of my previous work) the chat was largely around masculinity and the problem with men (I didn't choose the title for that book by the way, though it's interesting that certain men take against it without reading it - how do they know that the problem with men isn't that we're just too fucking brilliant? They know it isn't because we aren't, so their anger betrays their understanding of the truth.
I do, however, have a lot of sympathy with men. Until recently I was one (having lost a ball I am not sure I can any longer satisfy the conditions of the kind of people who would ask you to define a man) and I am full of the same flaws and hormones and idiocy (to be fair a lot of these things are shared by all humans whatever their gender). I have found over the years that talking about my failures and my confusions and the problems with being a man has helped me and I suspect many of the problems that other men have come from not talking about them. The stuff I've realised through shows like Talking Cock or my International Women's Day marathons are all pretty simple and obvious, but they were nonetheless revelations as they happened. The questionnaire in Talking Cock made me realise that women, in large part, love men, and their penises though beforehand, like many meninists I thought they often instinctively loathed us. That's not to say that they love all of us, just that they don't automatically hate all of us.
It's obvious when you stop to think about it, but there's a lot of negativity towards men out there and men are simple and vulnerable creatures so I understand why we're so insecure. And why that leads us to try to pretend to be so tough and confident. Balls - those weakest body part- are seen as the seat of masculinity and that pretty much proves my point.
Anyway, just more evidence that I am a character in a simulation or video game or celestial sitcom with a really shit writer. When they gave me testicular cancer I was really jumping the shark. The only way it could have been more jumping the shark is if I was jumping a shark when I lost my testicle, due to the shark biting it off.
I did a little bit of shopping at St Pancras, getting some Valentine's gifts (65,536 Ferrero Rochers) and an Agatha Christie book (let's see if I can tempt her on to book club).
I sort of forgot about Twitch of Fun until the afternoon, but thought it was worth giving it a go. And I am glad I did it. In spite of (or because of) lack of preparation, the comedy ideas kept flowing.
Have a watch.
