Tag Archives: eccentric

Lynn Ruth Miller in San Francisco on Trump Jokes + the teacups-in-a-bra act

Lynn Ruth Miller last week, at the Punchline in Sacramento

Midway through her three-week series of gigs in and around San Francisco, 84-year-old comic and burlesque performer Lynn Ruth Miller has realised something…


Here in the US, Donald Trump jokes do not work… even in California, where voters are overwhelmingly Democratic.  

There are large clusters of angry people who believe Donald Trump is refreshing (!) and honest (!!!) and they do not think he is being fairly covered by the press (who definitely hate him because he violates everyone’s sense of integrity, honesty and human awareness).

I am also aware of how important it is in this particular comedy scene to do set-up and punchline with little in between.  

Stories do not work as well here as they do in the UK. Americans want their jokes to be fast just like the food they eat. And they do not drink enough to soften the edges and see humor just because they want to see it.

After one show here, I went out to dinner with Bob Johnston who has been a redneck comedian for the past 21 years. His comedy is fast and hard-hitting and he has experienced success in pockets of the country where they like blue-collar humor.  

He lives in Martinez, another bedroom community in the San Francisco Bay area, and he has begun a series of comedy shows in an amphitheatre there that have been hugely successful.  

My friend Brett was with us and we talked comedy and people we knew over a dinner that was a typical American mess of large portions of unidentifiable food. There was a slaw of some kind with mint in it, fried plantains and what was supposed to be cod in so much batter I never did find the fish. It made me miss Bardsley’s Fish and Chips in Brighton, England, where the cod tastes better than a gourmet steak and the batter is to die for.  

Do not tell ME the English do not know how to create good food. Their fish and chips are beyond compare.  

Just do not get me started on haggis. (Sorry Scotland)

Brett is a perfect example of what has happened to the middle class in the Bay area.  

It is very like London in that Brett has a good job with a fine salary that anywhere else would be enough to support him and give him many luxuries – but which, here, he cannot even consider. He thinks of himself middle class as all of us do but he cannot afford an apartment of his own and he certainly cannot consider expensive vacations or nights out on the town.

The sad thing is that he is a marvellous comedian but, by the time he finishes his eight-hour job and two-hour commute to wherever he is living, he is too exhausted to perform in a comedy show that keeps him out until midnight or after. 

That is the plight of would-be comedians here. They cannot support themselves on comedy alone unless they are TV stars and a daytime job saps your energy so that, even if you do not mind operating on 5 hours sleep, you cannot be as sharp as you could be or in tune with your audience.  

I suspect this is a similar plight of comedians in London.

Brett is in contrast to the man I described in yesterday’s blog who has found himself homeless and helpless.  

Brett has never stopped working at anything anywhere to take care of himself. When he was evicted from his first flat in Pacifica, he went door-to-door and followed ad after ad until he found something. He was not bogged down with self-pity or paralyzed with a sense of inadequacy. He fought the system and found a niche he could live in.

The day after our dinner I met Mike Moto, a superb comedian who had a stroke three years ago and is recovering slowly but surely. He is a marvel and very, very funny. His day job is doing taxes and he is still top-notch at his job. The thing I love about him is his perseverance.  

He is recovering slowly from the damage the stroke did to his motor abilities and this is one time when I wanted to transport him to the UK where there are troupes of comedians with disabilities doing very well throughout the country like Abnormally Funny People.   

Nick Leonard came by to take me to lunch. He is a gay comedian, sometimes an adorable Tranny, who lived in London for a time and has turned to acting to support himself, only doing comedy occasionally.  He is a master at set-up and punchline and I was telling him about the famous UK suffragette Alice Hawkins who was arrested several times for being offensive.  

I told Nick I am now paid to be offensive and he said: “That’s progress.”

That night, I sang Zip (the song that got a standing ovation in London) at The Stud in San Francisco and this time, instead of a standing ovation, I got about $80 in tips which buys a lot more dinners than a standing ovation. To put this in perspective, the audience throw folded dollars onto the stage and the average take is about $20.  

The show is a tribute to Red Bone who is the host and is hugely capable not to mention drop-dead gorgeous… and Dottie Lux, the founder of Red Hot Burlesque. She has made it a true variety show, not just bums and tits.  

One young lady secured teacups in her bra and people threw sugar cubes into them. Then she poured water into the cups, poured that into her hat and did a bit of magic to make the water disappear.

After the show, I was waiting for my ride home and a young man came up to me and told me he had filmed me at one of my shows years ago. He remembered my house in Pacifica and a show he filmed at The Shelton Theatre.  

I have always felt that I made no impression at all in my 30 years here, despite having two local TV programs, exhibiting and selling art, writing columns and features for a newspaper and a magazine and of course doing comedy.

But, evidently, there are still a few people who actually remember that I was once part of this scene.

… CONTINUED HERE

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A man can avoid UK Death Duties and a woman can piss in a policeman’s helmet

I told someone an untruth yesterday.

In the UK, if you die, your estate has to pay Death Duties (Inheritance Tax) on what you leave behind over £325,000… unless you leave it to your spouse, civil partner, a charity or (rather oddly) a community amateur sports club.

So, basically, your sons, daughters and other heirs have to pay tax on what they inherit in your will.

If you are Lord Bloggs and own some flash country house, hundreds of acres and an estate worth several million pounds, the Inheritance Tax can be crippling. Tax is assessed at 40% of the net value of the estate. The ‘estate’ is property, land, cash, investments, anything of real value you leave behind.

But there is a way round this tax. Not just for Lord Bloggs but for any man who leaves an estate worth over £325,000 (and, with current house prices, that is not uncommon).

If you are a man and your wife is dead, you can marry your son.

A mother cannot marry her son. It is illegal.

A father cannot marry his daughter. It is illegal.

Incest is illegal.

But there is no law against a father marrying his son.

It is one of those quirks in UK law. Much like the quirk that used to mean male homosexuality was illegal but lesbianism was not illegal.

It was never illegal for a father to marry his son because the thought of it was inconceivable and male homosexuality was illegal.

So, now male-male marriages are legal, there is a quirky loophole in the law – that a father can marry his son provided the marriage is never consummated (because incest is still illegal).

That means that if, after the death of his wife, a man marries his son then… when the man dies, the son is his spouse and is not liable for death duties/inheritance tax.

Unfortunately, I found out today that is all a load of utter bollocks.

I told an untruth. Mea culpa.

Apparently a 2004 amendment to the Marriage Act 1949 specifically prohibits a father marrying his son – acccording to the Daily Telegraph, who should know about such things.

Pity.

A great pity.

I rather enjoyed the British quirkiness of it all.

Perhaps we should repeal the 2004 amendment to the Marriage Act.

I was always comforted by the thought that there is still an Oliver Cromwell law on the statute books which made it illegal for anyone in England to celebrate Christmas or to eat mince pies on Christmas Day.

But apparently it is an urban myth – Charles II repealed almost all Cromwell’s new laws.

London Metropolitan Police helmet

There is another urban myth that it is legal for a man to urinate on the rear wheel of his vehicle if his right hand is on the vehicle. And that pregnant women can legally urinate in any public place, including into a policeman’s helmet.

Alas, the BBC – who know about such things – say these are just that… urban myths.

Except – and this is true – the Law Commission does say that a police officer may make an exception for an expectant mother.

 

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Filed under Humor, Humour, Legal system, Uncategorized

How comic Malcolm Hardee’s pissing on a penguin saved The Iceman’s life

Art lover Maddie Coombe invests in another great artwork

Almost a week ago, this blog reported the shock news that, measured by sales of his paintings during his lifetime, The Artist formerly known as the IceMan (AIM) had sold three times as many paintings as Vincent van Gogh.

Further startling news reached my Inbox today – The Iceman/AIM has now sold another painting (numbered RFH 28) based on the block of ice he melted in the foyer of London’s Royal Festival Hall during Stewart Lee’s Austerity Binge: At Last! The 1981 Show which was held there in (yes it was) 2011.

The purchaser of the new painting, once again, is discerning art appreciator Maddie Coombe. AIM tells me the picture shows “the Iceman using superhuman strength to lift the Big Block.”

He tells me that “Mia Ritchie still thinks it could have been painted by a three-year-old.”

Mia Ritchie is a top netball player who, AIM tells me, “plays for England and has a robust and see-through attitude to art.”

Perhaps even more newsworthy is The Iceman/AIM’s revelation of his painting of the increasingly prestigious but sadly dead comedy legend Malcolm Hardee.

Late comedy legend Malcolm Hardee pisses on a penguin while The Iceman bravely performs at The Tunnel Palladium

“It is a picture of me,” says AIM, “at Malcolm’s famous Tunnel Palladium venue. Malcolm is pissing on The Iceman’s penguin…

“I think it was to distract the audience and save The Iceman’s life when things got riotously confrontational. He was aiming for my stuffed and sweet small penguin – my iceistant – who had innocently exacerbated hostility in some sections of the audience.

“The Iceman’s performance art seemed to unintentionally provoke the well-known hackles of the Greenwich audience. A minority in the famous Tunnel audience, though, did appreciate The Iceman’s art and even understood it and were even entertained by more than one ice block

“Do not be fooled by the irate standing spectators in the painting – nor by the flying beer glass – The Iceman had much fear but put his art first – even before his personal well-being.

“Another famous Iceman block at the Tunnel Palladium was a LIQUID one – the block melted on a summer evening in a traffic jam in Blackwall Tunnel. The bus driver was neither amused by The Iceman’s icequipment nor by the puddles ensuing from the melting block. He did not realise the privilege of seeing the warm-up process. The passengers were slightly more appreciative – in fact, they were a more empathetic crowd than the actual Tunnel fraternity.”

There is a video on YouTube of The Iceman almost – but not quite – performing at the Hackney Empire in London during a Malcolm Hardee tribute show in January 2007.

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Filed under Art, Comedy, Painting

The artist formerly known as The Iceman has sold a painting… I think

The Iceman

The Iceman’s entire stage act involves melting a block of ice

So, in the last two days, I have received 10 e-mails and currently 22 JPEGs of paintings of blocks of ice from my speciality act chum The Iceman.

The Iceman’s stage act involves melting blocks of ice.

That is his entire act. He has his fans.

“Incredible.” (Mike Myers)

“He’s a living saint.” (Stewart Lee)

“A figure of mythic proportions.” (Independent)

“This inexplicable man.” (The Stage)

The Iceman has had several brushes with fame

The Iceman when he was last (partially) seen in this blog

“My friends are all fans of yours.” (Phill Jupitus)

“Your act is shit!” (Chris Tarrant)

“A brilliant act.” (Simon Munnery)

“Truly a performance artist.” (Jo Brand)

The last time I blogged about The Iceman – two years ago – my piece was headed:

PERFORMANCE ARTIST THE ICEMAN – NOW AS SUCCESSFUL AS VAN GOGH IN HIS LIFETIME

In his 10 new emails, The Iceman suggests I should write a follow-up blog headlined:

THE PAINTER FORMERLY KNOWN AS THE ICEMAN BREAKS/DOUBLES VINCENT VAN GOGH’S RECORD, SELLING 2 PAINTINGS IN HIS LIFETIME.

"This one must be worth something - it's got real money on it-count the minimum price?"

“This one must be worth something – It’s got real money on it”

“My paintings are getting more sophisticated by the second,” he tells me. “The galleries want me more. You had better purchice a painting before the prices get out of reach? If you don’t like the icethetices, see it as an invicement. My deep art always benicefits from iceposure on your mammoth blog.

“The Iceman,” he continues, “now goes under the name of AIM – Anthony Irvine Man. As usual, my aim is lengthening the life of the original blocks of ice through a parallel transformation in the medium of paint. In the process, dicecovering  a thing of beauty can be made.

“I can’t tell you prices, but they are significeant. You can find all my recent paintings on Twitter -u are a follower!!!? – @Cold02ukIrvine

The Iceman and (I presume) Laurence shake on the art deal.

Iceman (left) & Laurence (I think) Rundell shake on the deal.

As far as I can fathom from The Iceman’s unique writing style, a man called Laurence bought one of the new Anthony Irvine Man’s paintings at the Topolski Gallery/Bar under Waterloo Bridge in London.

He sent me a photograph.

“The handshake,” he explained, “is an agreement to honour/complete the sale and instead of paying in cash to transfer funds to the Iceman’s bank accice. The Iceman met Topolski (through/with the IceMother & an art appreciator – the IceWoman/IceWife was also there) when it was still his studio.

An unusually colourful Iceman painting

Unusually colourful painting by re-born Anthony Irvine Man

“The painting was SOLD,” he continued to explain, “but with permission to hang in exhibitions. IM magnifices sunrays to melt block… booked in advance – on hold. Both paintings are based on live performance of live block handling @ Tooting Lido – See vid clip on web sice www.iceblocked.co.uk. Another art critic cfs aim to basquiat & Dubuffet but I aim, am too humbled by that cf to dwell on it.”

So I think that clears things up.

He rounds things off by saying:

Iceman block

Sometimes, on stage, The Iceman needs some humping help

“Laurence (buyer) is going to send me some text re WHY he has bought the painting, so will forward to you when it comes. Can you spot the ‘snail damage’? It is on the painting of the IM with spray-can on head. It took some water – my garage studio is very damp, being open to the elements – icepropriately.”

The photos of the various paintings in this blog were, I think. taken by Elizabeth Holdsworth of the Royal College of Art but, like much else in The Iceman’s occasional publicity blitzes, this is a tad vague. I find it more intriguing not to investigate further.

I think the newly re-born Anthony Irvine Man would continue to prefer to be seen as an International Man of Micetery.

On YouTube, FYI, he explains his philosophy in 23 seconds:

… and examines his own face in 24 seconds

and, in under 2 minutes, re-runs an over-6-minute audition he did for me in 1987.

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Are all Finns drunk all the time?

Anna Smith took this selfie in Antwerp

Anna took this selfie in Antwerp

Anna Smith, this blog’s occasional Canadian correspondent, lives on a boat in Vancouver. She has an exotic past.

And, indeed, present.

Exotic dancing is what we are talking about here.

This week, she told me about Finland.

I mentioned that the first Finns I ever met were an uproarious and paralytically drunk group of tourists in Leningrad.

Very very amiable but (literally) staggeringly drunk.

Almost every Finn I have ever met since then has been very very amiable but amazingly drunk.

This is what Anna remembered of Finland.


Trees and snow. Trees and Snow. Trees and snow.

Finland was the most civilised place I ever worked. There were saunas everywhere and sculptures of naked women, even in the post office.

I danced at La Scala in Helsinki for a week (which gave me the silly distinction of being able to add La Scala, Helsinki to my CV) and I toured the rest of the country for three weeks. It was the coldest February in decades.

La Scala was an ornate cinema on Esplanadi, the main esplanade on the Helsinki waterfront near the controversial mermaid fountain called Havis Amanda. When I danced at La Scala, the entire audience was composed of men wearing wolfskin hats.

The brochure produced by La Scala featured a photo of me baring my comely bottom and claimed that I was a “Upea Lumoojatar” (Gorgeous Enchantress). I danced to James Bond theme songs and emerged from masks and a cape, as the sea was frozen.

After years of poverty in England, I was enchanted especially by the food, which was included in my contract. I had shrimp cocktails daily and tried unsuccessfully to make myself sick of salmon, which I washed down with large glasses of thick piimä (buttermilk). Clusters of drunken men lurched towards me when I left the stage, pleading with me to drink with them. I cut a path through them by explaining: “Sorry, but I only drink piimä,” which sent them into convulsions and they echoed: “She only drinks piimä! She drinks only piimä!!!

I was followed out of the theatres several times by men – once by a beaming eighty year old who told me that I was very, very good at my work and that he knew what he was talking about because, as he said, “I am connasieur”.

In Tampere, an industrial town in the north, I was charmed to see the earmuff-wearing police. I performed in a vast hall that had no stage, so I had to dance on the floor in front of tables of pulp and paper workers. One of them was a woman who stuck her tongue out at me, but seemed to be enjoying my show. The sound system was terrible at that place. I could barely hear my music so I had to fake it as best I could, which was awful for me but the audience didn’t mind.

As I was putting my clothes back on in the washroom which served as my dressing room, the door suddenly burst open and a big drunk man came through it. He knelt at my feet and began howling out a stream of words in Finnish. I was standing by the sink wondering what to do next when four more drunk men crashed into the room. They were laughing but also apologetic.

“He wants to marry you,” they explained, looking back at me as they dragged him out of the room.

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Things that did not happen – the solar eclipse and John Otway, rock superstar

This morning’s Daily Telegraph touted the solar eclipse

Today’s Daily Telegraph touted the eclipse as very Big News indeed

On 11th August 1999, I was working at HTV, on the outskirts of Cardiff.

At 11.11am, there was a 97-98% eclipse of the sun over Cardiff. Videotape editor Richard got hold of a dentist’s mirror (they are also used by electronic engineers) and stuck it in the ground, reflecting the sun onto a piece of white card. We also saw the eclipse with the naked eye as it passed behind light clouds on the edge of a large dark grey cloud.

I had not expected to be impressed, but seeing the partial eclipse in the sky with my naked eyes was strange, especially with the air slightly and strangely chilly for no reason – there was no breeze, just a chill and, in the far distance, the sound of a car alarm which sounded like the theme music to The Twilight Zone.

On the ground and in the air, there was an eerie light, neither normal daylight nor dusk, as if the light was in the air itself, not coming from any specific direction. Richard said that during a full eclipse there was total darkness in the sky above, with the stars visible, but on the horizon there is a lighter colour – as if there were a 360˚ sunrise.

The streets of Borehamwood were not impressed at 09.31am today

Streets of Borehamwood were not in awe at 09.31am today

This morning, goaded-on by my eternally-un-named friend, I roamed the streets of Borehamwood awaiting the promised 85% solar eclipse at 09.31am.

The skies of Borehamwood were a uniform light grey and the streets of Borehamwood were not thronged with expectant masses.

At 09.31am – the appointed time – nothing was visible.

A llama remained unimpressed even at 10.10am on the Isle of Dogs

A llama remained unimpressed even at 10.10am on the Isle of Dogs (Photograph by M-E-U-N-F)

A teenager later interviewed by BBC TV News at, I think, Leicester racecourse (no, I don’t know why) said she found the eclipse “illuminating”.

My eternally-un-named friend, at an animal farm on the Isle of Dogs in London (no, I don’t know why either), was reduced to sending me a photo of a disgruntled-looking llama.

And a sign in a field saying: PLEASE DO NOT FEED OR THROW FOOD TO THE SHETLAND PONIES – THEY ARE ON A SPECIAL DIET. Why the ponies are on a diet, I do not know.

The BBC obviously have better links with The Almighty than I and my eternally-un-named friend did in Borehamwood and the Isle of Dogs. They reported a “breathtaking” solar eclipse.

But there are better things than succeeding in the conventional sense.

The BBC reporting what I didn’t see

Last night, I went to see cult music act John Otway perform at The Good Ship venue in Kilburn. He holds what must surely be some sort of record – having had one hit song (Cor Baby, That’s Really Free in 1977) and then getting a second hit song a whole 25 years later (Bunsen Burner – 2002).

In a BBC poll in 1999, his song Beware Of The Flowers Cause I’m Sure They’re Going To Get You Yeah was voted the seventh greatest lyric of all time.

John Otway at The Good Ship last night

John Otway was at The Good Ship last night

As John pointed out with flawless logic last night, the BBC vote was for the greatest lyrics written in the 2,000 years since Jesus Christ was born, coming seventh meant he was a “better lyricist than Bob Dylan” and, as Paul McCartney’s Yesterday came sixth in the poll, Cor Baby, That’s Really Free is “almost as good a song as Yesterday”.

John Otway’s 1990 autobiography was titled Cor Baby, That’s Really Me – Rock and Roll’s Greatest Failure and his second autobiography  (2010) is entitled I Did It Otway.

I have to say the self-styled Greatest Failure in Rock ’n’ Roll seems very happy with it: a lesson to us all, perhaps.

There are more interesting things in the world than a partial solar eclipse.

YouTube has a clip of John Otway singing Bunsen Burner on BBC TV’s Top of The Pops

And he is also HERE with Wild Willy Barratt and Cor Baby, That’s Really Free

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Live forest sex in Canada amid massage parlours and marijuana plantations

After reading yesterday’s blog about live sex on-stage at a rock festival in Norway, this blog’s occasional correspondent Anna Smith sent me the following from Vancouver.


The ever interesting Anna Smith

Anna Smith: woman with a past

It’s not that unusual for people to have sex in the forest here. It’s a bit less crowded than the beach.

Most of British Columbia is conveniently covered in forest. Forestry is a major industry, it may even provide more jobs than massage parlours, but not as many as the marijuana plantations. Work in the orchards, fishing and mushroom-picking industries is more seasonal. Tree planting, logging, sawmills, pulp & paper and forest fires provide a lot of work year round and excitement every summer. Fire fighters pour in from across the continent, livening up small towns and dumping toxic water bombs from helicopters onto burning railway trestles to the delight of intoxicated teenage ferry passengers.

I have always turned down any job that involves having sex on stage. So I did find it hilarious that, when I was dancing in the Belgian Porno cinemas (which was not quite the same thing as the Belgian Congo, although the cinemas could be described as conflict zones), the signs outside the cinemas advertised Live Sex Show but it was just me doing a striptease. We had to sign lengthy contracts in quadruplicate stating that, if we were performing with wild animals or on the trapeze, we were responsible for our own insurance.


Anna’s father sounds interesting. She also sent me this:


Anna Smith last night, "after three days of sleeping on a psychiatrist’s couch"

A photo taken last night of Anna Smith, “after three days of sleeping on a psychiatrist’s couch, not wearing any make-up.”

My father is asleep right now, which I am glad of as he has a large hole on the top of his head. He looks like he has been hit by shrapnel and I am very glad he did not remove his cap at the concert on Saturday, although he did threaten to.

His friend, a languages professor from Manchester, pleaded that he not remove his cap.

I asked the professor: “What’s the matter? Don’t you have a hole in your head?”

He said he did not, so I asked him where he did have holes – a question which did not displease him.

We were in a church. There was an announcement over the PA system that someone had left their headlights on and that they should be turned off.

My father pretended that it was an announcement that someone had left their cap on and, again, threatened to remove his.

After the concert, we noticed two spooky effigies against the wall. One represented a refugee and the other a homeless person with angel’s wings.


I have no explanation for the above.


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Filed under Canada, Eccentrics, Sex, Surreal