The always thoughtful conservative press, aware that many of its readers are missing their traditional fox hunting have introduced a new sport to keep their loyal subscribers busy - comic baiting. Simply take a well known comedian, quote part of their set completely out of context and wait while people queue up to be offended on behalf of others. The latest victim of this new fad is Jimmy Carr. His quip that the current war in Iraq means that Britain will have a fantastic Para-Olympic team was seized on by the Sunday papers and then dragged out by back bench Tory MPs looking to remind their constituents that they’re still alive. It’s a win- win situation; newspapers get a good splash headline plus acres of pages filled with outraged, indignant columnists and obscure MPs get their faces on telly the year before a general election, the only victim is the comic. He ends up with his material mauled to a misshaped mess, reputation destroyed and public figures can, with complete impunity, call for the end of his career, just for doing his job properly.

Confusingly, injured servicemen aren’t even the butt of the joke. Jimmy was pointing out, through humour, that by 2012 there will be a generation of otherwise healthy men and women maimed and injured due to a war many now see as at best pointless at worst illegal. People should find this joke unsettling and slightly disturbing but the anger is better directed at the government for bringing their country into the conflict instead of the fool on stage for pointing it out. Politicians angrily claimed that the only people with the right to make that sort of joke were the soldiers themselves. I agree, there is a dearth of military men on the stand up circuit at the moment, mainly as they’re a bit busy being blown up. So until they’re less occupied, much like the citizens of Iraq, we’ll have to rely on professional comedians to satirise the war instead, even if, as mere civilians they’re scarcely allowed to.

The evolution of being offended from an occasional frustration to a national game of moral one -upmanship has had a disastrous affect on comedy. Established comics have to choose between playing it safe or potentionally jeopardising their career, jittery producers become reluctant to commission anything that may offend somebody, somewhere and the result is bland opinion less TV and radio programmes that no one; the producers, comics or audiences really care about. People often wonder why Britain has no equivalent of John Stewart, whose Daily Show became a deciding factor in last year’s American elections. The truth is that a comic with his strong political opinions and passion, exactly the things that you need for satire to work, would never be allowed on television here. The father of modern satire Jonathan Swift wrote an essay “A Modest Proposal” at the height of the Irish Famine suggesting that the Irish people should eat their babies as a way of avoiding starvation. In this current climate there’d be protests outside his house and claims he was glamorizing cannibalism. A democracy prides itself on the freedom of its arts, the ability of its novelists, painters and poets to publish and produce whatever they like. Throughout history comedy, and its swottier sibling satire, has been the Arts poor relation, but it’s comedy’s scraps for free speech that have probably made the most difference to most ordinary people’s everyday lives. It’s time we as a society defended that tradition and comedians stopped apologising.

Stephen Carlin redresses not talking about The Wire, the best show no one’s not seen, by mentioning it at least 13 times.

Sorry, just let me first apologise. We’re into the second sentence of this article , and already I’ve failed to mention how much I enjoy The Wire. I will quickly redress the situation. I like The Wire. You know The Wire? Not the phenomenon of metal pulled into a thin flexible thread, although I’m a pretty big supporter of that wire too. God, isn’t electrical cable great? But The Wire, the HBO programme. The one about corrupt cops and corrupt drug dealers and corrupt other people, all being corrupt. Cops who break all the rules and still can’t get results.That Wire. I fully support The Wire. I back The Wire 120%. I’ve had carnal relations with The Wire. I’d like to state that for the record. As with Nelson Mandela, so too with The Wire. It’s not simply good enough to be a supporter - you have to be seen to be a supporter.

It’s not the first time I’ve neglected to mention The Wire. I recently attended a wedding where I repeatedly declined to indicate my enjoyment of HBO’s finest. I failed to cut into the free-flowing chitchat withThe Wire non-sequiturs. I don’t know what went wrong. Call it first night nerves. A public enquiry would have blamed human error, but whatever it was, I will forever be remembered by the other guests as “that guy who didn’t talk about The Wire”. I further compounded the problem by not comparing The Wire to a serious literary figure. Dickens, Shakespeare, Dostoyevsky - take your off-the-peg pick. A passing broadside against the mother of the bride’s hat would have been indulged; a projectile vomit directed at the top table passed off as over enthusiasm. But an absence of Wire references was indefensible. By this stage there was no way back.

Frustratingly, I already had pre-prepared arguments ready to be deployed like Britain’s independent nuclear deterrent, at a moment’s notice. Arguments concluding that no concessions are made to the viewer. Others about how we are all ultimately compromised by the institution we’re committed to. Dress rehearsals of propositions had been undertaken. Dry runs of conversational set pieces conducted. Best laid plans of mice and men laid. But I flunked The Wire key test.

Stephen Carlin hosts The Stephen Carlin project on Thursday the 5th of November at the Camden Head - Tickets Here

The Post office diaries.

A large part of running the Fix is spent in the post office, as you can see by our debt counter we can’t afford a helper to go and do it for us and the last volunteer we had at the Fix we literally broke her back, seriously we are still paying for her physiotherapy. Over the last few months I have a gained a precious insight into how the post office works or doesn’t work to be more precise. What is about follow are my Post office diaries which if read by the right people will hopefully bring the post office to it’s knees.

Monday Morning sending magazines out to subscribers

There are two types of point of sale in the post office the one that idiots queue up in to post letters and the one that people think is only for buying stationary in. In fact the second one you can post letters at, in fact you can do pretty much anything at this till that doesn’t involve a form. But still idiots join the big queue to the glass windows, snaking out on to the pavement as they think that the other till is redundant.

As I am posting the letters a woman interrupts me “Excuse me!” she says to the clerk. The clerk is unable to deal with this, stamping up my letters and a separate request from another member of the general public, the clerk contemplates calling head office before carrying on stamping my letters in the vein hope that this woman will just disappear. “Excuse me I would like to talk to the manager, I have just been abused in the queue by a mentally ill man.” He contemplates that it might have been him before stopping completely what he was doing he is physically unable to carry on, he clearly has not been briefed on the procedure, he waits for assitance that never comes. Its the post office, everyone’s mentally ill get over it I convey with a look to the now nervous looking woman. I encourage the clerk to finish the task in hand I have already exceeded my RDA of time in the post office for one day.

Tuesday afternoon Media pack

Guess what? Idiots are queuing in the big queue again whilst the stationary till is empty. I’ve got about 20 media packs to post today. Bunch of bloody morons. I coast in walk straight up to the till it’s a different clerk today the other one has obviously had to take the day off due to a stress related illness from yesterdays affair.

All of a sudden like some Jesus figure I open the eyes to a couple of people in the big queue that you can post letters at this till. A woman then says to me I’ve only got one letter to post do you mind if I just do that, the new clerk looks even more worried about this than the one yesterday- he’s already started on my letters, I OK it. An old woman has also cottened on to this ruse and when the other woman has posted her letter the woman asks me if she can buy some stamps. “No!” I say. Until I started using this till she didn’t even know it existed! I don’t care if you are 83 and only want to buy a stamp to send your grandson a birthday card; too long in a post office can do things to a man, look at this clerk, he had hopes and dreams now he cant even operate a till and lick a stamp at the same time if I don’t post these letters now that could be me in 5 mins. “I only want to buy one book of stamps.” “Tough shit”. The old woman looks sad but this is for my own sanity it’s too late for her.

Conclusion

To survive the post office you need to be tough, don’t let your emotions take control. The majority of the customers and staff at the post office are weak don’t pander to them or you to will become weak and you will never get you letters posted.

Footnote: only 70% of my letters arrived at their destination.

Next month: I get mugged in the post office by the post office

There’s an unwritten clause somewhere in the live comedy universe that states almost all Fix events should be terrifying, socially awkward affairs – fights, comedians having breakdowns, that sort of stuff. Arriving at the Camden Head and bumping into a good friend’s ex-girlfriend (aah those difficult silences wouldn’t have been out of place at a funeral) ensures tonight is, nearly, no different. Luckily tonight’s acts have no such issues. Always-affable host, Richard Sandling, has never had problems warming up a crowd and everyone’s more than willing to fall in with his film based fun. After all who doesn’t want to shout, ‘Yippee-ki-yay, motherfucker’ in a Camden pub on a Thursday night?

The last time we saw opening act Pat Burtscher was also at a Fix night. True to form there were 5 people in attendance that night, 3 of whom were acts on the bill. Cue the awkwardness. But again there are no such problems tonight. He’s a mix of musings, ramblings and what he refers to as ‘Pure Banter’. It’s a tongue-in-cheek description of his material but with his laid back, improvisational style it’s not far from the mark and he makes for a likeable opener.

First half headliner John Gordillo is a whirlwind, ramshackle genius. He makes his way on stage with notes he admits he won’t use, pens, Lucozade, chocolate. He’s offering refunds to people who saw him at Edinburgh. He’s your favourite, slightly scatty, lecturer. But there’s nothing scatty about his current Fuckanomics material, the perfect balance of pathos and intelligence while still being wickedly funny.

After the interval it’s the turn of newcomer Sally Tatum, who, despite only a few gigs to her name, already has a charming bitchiness to her character and she takes some very fresh swipes at some well-worn subjects like ethical shopping.

Headliner Simon Munnery’s previous Fix performances have also been notable for one major reason – he’s never been there. Well, not in person anyway, The Fix budget has usually stretched to a Skype connection and a laptop adorned with a printed picture of his face. While that’s all fine and dandy, watching a laptop is nothing like watching him in the flesh. He’s on great form too talking openly, but never mawkishly, about his children and his battle with cancer while still fitting in the usual surrealism and songs. And the fact there wasn’t a fight, a breakdown or a laptop in sight makes it all the more enjoyable.

There was a time when a man’s name meant something, when it preceded him and acted as a sacred bond in any disputes over the three L’s: Legislature, Land and Love. Now men hold their name with little regard, choosing to be known not for their integrity or benevolence but rather known as the bloke who burst into tears when Blueray came out because they’d already spent a fortune buying DVDs to replace the VHS.

To date, your nothing surname has gotten you nowhere. Some people’s name bequeath them an entire estate with acres and everything, but you only stand to inherit two badly received Queen albums and a dilapidated shed that still smells of dead cat after your Dad’s Falkland’s flashback turned strimming into an ‘incident’.

Then, perhaps the reason for lack of success isn’t down to a handful of deep seated personality disorders - maybe all that is holding you back is that when people hear your normal, uninteresting name they know you’re never destined to play volleyball with the Gods. No one is going to give someone called Nigel Picklington the keys to a Porsche, Nigel sounds like he has a miniature toy town in his loft. Halstead Steel on the other hand isn’t going to be accused of masturbating in a friend’s toilet during a dinner party.

Maybe with a different, better name you could be the sort of person you were told you always could be, a straight up, strong person who’d never dream of taking money out of your mum’s purse, in your mid 20’s. Maybe with another name, girls would finally see what they’ve been missing all these years. They have heard all they need to hear from you, but have they ever met an Andonis Johnson? Imagine the refined conversations about opera they’d have with Hemingway Burroughs? Of course they’d ignore the beer breath and leer if they could find out a little bit more about the exciting adventures of Speed Firestorm, or hear the endless love stories of Raul Sebastian Forbes.

They say that clothes don’t maketh the man, but a name does - even if Drake Stallion is seen vomiting into a pot plant before midnight, he’s still Drake Stallion and he’d still kick your arse.

And if you could change your name? Well, people would certainly sit up and listen to a Leonardo Humidor or a Donatello Lovebox, but is that really you? Could you do what Jefferson Thunderbird is supposed to do? No, of course you don’t. You were given a phone book name that reeks of pedestrian nothingness. You might think you could pull off a Troy Renoir-Rochelle, but you haven’t got the balls, have you?

For the past 20 years, I have been flipping off everything in sight: trees, used cars, babies…. Now come share my joy this Wednesday, 7 Oct, 6 PM, and let’s get together for a random, tiny act of rebellion.

See you there, Rich

www.fuckoffbigben.com

I am gearing up for the mammoth task of putting together the book review pages for the bumper Xmas issue of The Fix. Every bloody celebrity in the world seems to have a book out this Christmas and I have the joy of reading them all.

So far I have called in the following weighty intellectual tomes of huge importance to the cultural backbone of our lives.

Saturday Night Peter/Peter Kay autobiog vol 2/Century Books

Ooh What A Lovely Pair /Ant and Dec auto/Penguin

Good Times/Justin Collins/Ebury

It’s Not What You Think/Chris Evans/HarperCollins

My Shit Life So Far/Frankie Boyle/HarperCollins

Look Back In Hunger/Jo Brand/Headline Review

My Favourite People and Me 1978-1988 by Alan Davies/Penguin

Halfway To Hollywood: Diaries 1980 to 1988: The Film Years by Michael Palin/Weidenfeld

I will be rating each book on a strict system and each book will be stripped clean to reveal the worst (and best) celebrity anecdotes, the most cliched explanation of why the author became a comedian, the most absurd white-washing of sleaze etc etc. Can’t wait!