Are you ready to Make Mine Mackinder? It’s almost time…
Stan Lee: How Marvel Changed the World – OUT MARCH 31st
Pen and Sword: https://lnkd.in/ei-XYbX
Amazon UK: https://lnkd.in/eyXWKkM
Are you ready to Make Mine Mackinder? It’s almost time…
Stan Lee: How Marvel Changed the World – OUT MARCH 31st
Pen and Sword: https://lnkd.in/ei-XYbX
Amazon UK: https://lnkd.in/eyXWKkM
If ever there was a year that’s under a lot of pressure to deliver, it’s 2021. Not fair really. There’s been this unspoken, unfounded but understood belief that last year’s horror show would somehow vanish as soon as the Town Hall clock struck midnight on January 1st. With each and every one of those chimes ringing across the soggy Copenhagen night air, we would bid good riddance to a year blighted by pandemic, and usher in a new dawn of viral-free freedom. Except it didn’t. Funny that.
2021 has already caved under pressure. It’s told us we shouldn’t get our hopes up. Within only a week of its birth, this year delivered us an unbridled attack on the very seat of US democracy. The images of a failed coup ascending Capitol Hill was a sight to behold. A conflagration of jagged, angry flags, ludicrous facial hair, UFO abductees, Far Right nutjobs and extras from Deliverance. That wasn’t so funny.
Last year was especially turbulent for me. January 2020 alone saw an unexpected and tragic death in the family, me blighted by a nasty bout of shingles and then both kids simultaneously struck down by chicken pox so aggressive, they resembled those doomed engineers ordered to cool down Reactor 4 at Chernobyl. And then, a few weeks later, just when things started to calm down for us and sickness had waned, the entire world caved in on itself. What a time to be alive. But I remain hopeful.
Globally speaking, we are lucky to be living here in the time of corona. The UK crumbled. The British government proved even worse at handling a pandemic than Brexit. I remain largely disinterested by Danish politics – too much choice and not enough variety – but I do applaud the current government. Their relatively swift action enabled schools and nurseries to reopen and people to return to work in good time, albeit under different, strange conditions.
As a parent, I was grateful my kids could continue to enjoy their own kind and we could preserve our sanity. As a performer, I know just how fortunate I was to spend a large chunk of last year doing stand-up comedy and improv to paying audiences all around this city, when so many overseas had their professions and employment crushed overnight by months of interminable lockdown. OK, so things have since gone backwards, but we turned it around before, I remain hopeful we can do it again.
Now Brexit has happened, along with all other Brits living here, I must reapply for residency. I remain hopeful this will be just a formality and not a hurdle. I’ve lived here half a decade now, this is my home. It is my kids’ home. I want them to enjoy growing up here. Then in ten years’ time, we can visit the smoldering ruins of Daddy’s homeland and buy a Chelsea townhouse for five jellied eels and a pickled egg.
I also remain hopeful I can shed the lockdown weight and keep it off. I have no patience for diets. Now is not the time. We need all the comfort food we can get. So home exercise that doesn’t involved being screamed at by a lycra-clad YouTuber is the way forward. After years of being a proud member of gyms I won’t go to, the other week I stumped up for a rowing machine. A fancy one. I’ve already used it. I remain hopeful I will use it twice.
Finally, I remain hopeful you will buy my book. It’s entitled Stan Lee: How Marvel Changed the World, out March 31st. It’s about the man who helped invent some of the world’s most famous comic-book superheroes. But I’ve cunningly written it so you don’t have to be a comic book fan to also find it interesting. It’s a joyous romp through a century of mainstream entertainment – stage, radio, TV, film and online – seen through the life of a man who was at the forefront of popular culture for over seventy years. It’s fun, funny, full of weird trivia, and I hope as fascinating to read as I found it to research and write. You can pre-order now directly from White Owl Books or via Amazon. It’s my first book, but I remain hopeful it won’t be my last.
Recently those delightful folks at The Copenhagen Post collected my social media ramblings during the Coronavirus lockdown for posterity. You can read the original article here, but I’ve also shared them below. Enjoy.
March 11
With Denmark now on lockdown, the mask of civilisation starts to slip. The happiest people on Earth turn and eat each other. The welfare state transforms into a police state. Strings of Danish flags will be replaced by barbed wire. Hygge becomes hazmat. Quarantine zones erupt with hideous violence, with once-decent folk ripping each other to pieces over a single pastry. The seas boil, the skies fall. Christiania becomes a huge prison – a deep, yawning chasm pulsing with broken, seething, angry, drug-fuelled Danes. Blood lust will be satisfied via live prime-time competitive entertainment, played out on stolen TV sets powered by rats. From this fallen city, heroes will rise who will lead us from this nightmarish Babylon to a place of sanctuary … That’s what I’m hoping anyway.
March 14
As we begin two weeks in total lockdown, it’s vital to stay calm. Here are five top tips on how you and your family can make the enforced isolation more tolerable.
March 16
Whatever happened to quicksand? It was a big deal in the ‘80s. People got stuck in it on TV all the time. Now not so much.
March 17
Look on the bright side. Because all meetings now take place remotely via video, we can have a good old snoop into people’s homes.
March 18
How hard is it working from home with kids? Put it this way. It’s taken me 48 minutes to listen to a song that lasts just over four.
March 19
What I want to know is why are there so few cases in Russia and India, which border China for thousands of miles? And how can a country like China, with over a billion people, and traditionally underwhelming hygiene and food preparation records (relative to other developed countries), have contained this so quickly? Why has their economy now recovered suspiciously quickly while Europe is on its knees. Are the Chinese now rapidly buying up shares, assets and investments in Western stock while we’re busy staying inside? And why-oh-god-please-help-me-I’ve-been-stuck-inside-for-three-days-and-I-need-some-evidence-based-facts-before-my-addled-mind-lumbers-further-into-paranoid-conspiracy-theories.
March 20
Six months of dark, grey Danish winter. Now glorious sunshine, we all have to pretend we’re in ‘The Shining’.
March 28
With the world going to hell in a handcart, only a fool would try to sell their home, right? We’ll I’m that fool. If you know anyone interested in a piece of prime Copenhagen real estate so desirable and at such a bargain it would make Lex Luthor collapse with joy, then please share or recommend.
March 29
A belated thank you to all who took the time out of your busy schedule to wish me a happy birthday. Those of you who know me will be aware I have trained my whole life for this lockdown.
I grew up glued to the TV. I don’t much care for being outdoors. I enjoy my own company. I know how to keep myself amused for weeks on end without leaving the house and I have no great itch to do anything physical other than pour a fifth gin. I could have ridden this out without breaking a sweat.
In fact, when the pandemic lifts, I’d probably be the one person asking for another couple of days to prepare myself for interacting with society.
March 31
Just sent my finished book to the publishers. Thanks to all who made it possible. Am now going to stay in and get wrecked.
April 3
Right now I’d happily start an aggressive and destructive drugs habit just for the stint in rehab #lockdownwithkids.
April 9
I went for a run today. An actual run. I actually ran. And I was bad at it. Just terrible. Caught a glimpse of myself as I wheezed past a shop window. I looked like an overweight bear standing on its hind legs for the first time. How can this be? How can someone be bad at running? It’s a basic human ability. We evolved to run. Fight or flight. I can’t do either. Here I stand, a miracle of evolution. They should make a Netflix documentary about me. About my shocking inability to rapidly move my limbs. And I wasn’t even wearing heavy tweed or holding a sherry. So I shall continue this endeavour until I have mastered the art of swift movement. Wish me luck. Donations welcome.
Easter Sunday
It’s so important to remember why we celebrate Easter. How, two thousand years ago, Jesus was sent to prison by a military court for a crime he didn’t commit. This man promptly escaped from a maximum-security stockade to the Lost Angeles underground. Today, still wanted by the government, he survives as a soldier of fortune. If you have a problem, if no-one else can help, and if you can find him, maybe you can hire … Jesus.
April 15
Here’s a thought. If you’re feeling anxious, stressed or scared. Stop watching the news. Stop reading articles about coronavirus. It’s not helping. It really isn’t. It doesn’t make us feel good. The press don’t thrive on making us feel good. Never have. Never will.
Currently there are too many stories floating around about how terrible things could be – rolling-news padding that serves as filler in between what scarce real news there truly is. And by ‘real news’, I mean information that will move things forward. And trust me. We’re so plugged in, anything productive that we need to know, we WILL hear about. Vaccines, antibody tests, the dead rising from the grave, you’ll be notified. In the meantime, absorbing endless charts of death or journalists and politicians politicising a pandemic will only trigger and fuel anxiety, anger and blame.
Truth is we’re all still in stasis right now. That’s about it. Nothing has changed. The virus is here. It’s not going away. Many people are getting it. Some are dying. It’s horrible. We must be vigilant. So it goes. Anything else is purely emotive click-bait. So while we wait for things to progress, let’s just keep talking, stay in touch, and find the funny side wherever we can. So here’s the fish-slapping dance.
April 19
You know you need to exercise when you see a ‘before/after’ gym ad and think: “I’d just be happy with the ‘before’ pic.”
I recently wrote something for The Copenhagen Post which I knew would cause a bit of a ruffle. But I stand by it. Here it is in full.
I had an epiphany the other day that reduced my stress levels no end: I am no longer going to feel guilty about not speaking Danish.
I’m going to let it go.
Some people say to me I should speak Danish. Like it’s an easy task. Like it’s not a hard language to learn. Well it is. It really is. I mean, there’s a reason it never caught on. And I’m raising two tiny kids. I’m not going to dedicate what precious little down time I have to sitting in a classroom of an evening learning Danish. I’m too tired.
Some people have said that the fact I don’t speak Danish is disrespectful. I’ll tell you what else is disrespectful. Trying to make me do something I don’t have the time, money or inclination to do, just so you can feel a little less uncomfortable. Me not speaking Danish is not going to undermine Danish culture, tradition and heritage. I’m polite and courteous, I work hard, I obey the law. I pay my taxes. I’m just trying to get through the damn day. Leave me alone.
And if you’re not comfortable speaking English? That’s fine. I’ll meet you half way. We can still converse. Because I guarantee your English will always be better than my Danish. And speaking Danish to Danes is a grueling, demoralizing ordeal. Why? Because Danes are just not used to hearing their language spoken with a foreign accent, so there’s no cognitive elasticity. That’s why, if you mispronounce a Danish word, even slightly, they often won’t understand you. They won’t meet you half way.
Some people have told me I’m arrogant. How dare I come over here and not speak the language. I’m not arrogant. I’m just honest and realistic. I do understand why some ex pats feel they should learn Danish. They see themselves as guests in this country. Well I’ve got news for you. You’re not a guest. You come here legally and pay your taxes? You’ve got as much right to be here as any Dane. And if you think being born here gives you the right to tell a foreigner how they should conduct themselves, if they contribute equally to society, then you’re just a big old racist.
I’m not patriotic. As you can tell. Take my own country. There are things I love about Britain. There are things I hate about Britain – especially right now. But it has great pubs! I loathe nationalism. It’s dangerous, it’s divisive and it’s destructive. I don’t care where you’re from. Just be kind, be generous of spirit, be open to others’ differences. That’s enough surely?
I love the ex pat community. Because here, we interact with people from all over the world, bringing with us a veritable multiverse of culture, history, customs and experience. Denmark is a monoculture. The ex pats bring the diversity. They bring vibrancy. This is not a ghetto, it’s a wonderful rainbow of inclusivity, splattering colour over all this Danish grey. I’m proud to call myself an ex pat. We don’t all need to be waving a flag all the time.
People now pushing Brexit simply because ‘it’s been dragging on too long’. Fuck you. So sorry you’re bored of all this. How tedious that it’s always on the news. Must be a real drag to be part of one of the most significant flash points in modern European history. Must put you right off your dinner.
Of course it’s tedious. Most socio-political and economic things that matter are. This is incredibly dry and complicated, no matter how Whitehall and its tabloid patrons would have it spun.
Of course it’s irritating. It’s being managed by a drunken clown convention straight out of a Hogarth print. If you were being forced to watch your kid’s incredibly important birthday party being planned every stage by scores of narcissistic rabid baboons, you’d have every right to be irritated. There’s only so much shit being flung across the room one can stomach.
But that doesn’t mean anyone should be dismissing this seismic calamity, nor the way it came to fruition, as some trifling inconvenience that simply needs to be over and done with, like it’s the weekly big shop. What a shallow collection of self-absorbed skin bags we really are.
Maybe a major reason it’s still dragging on is because it’s incredibly important that we get it right. That maybe there is NO WAY to get it right. That maybe, just maybe, we should have left this sort of thing to those with relevant knowledge, skills, experience and qualifications. Not the current gaggle of self-serving politicians and certainly not ‘The People’.
I’m not saying ‘The People’ are thick. This isn’t some smug middle-class anti-Brexit tirade. My point is that when it comes to issues like this, people are, at best, completely indifferent. We’re more interested in going down the pub with friends, binging Netflix, having a nice lunch or seeing who wins Strictly. And that’s absolutely fine. Point is, we shouldn’t need to be involved in this.
Back in 2016, Cameron probably thought he could quietly slip this through, appease the euro-sceptic back benchers, declare a decisive ‘Remain’ victory and no one would even notice. Talk about not reading the room. People were annoyed for wealth of reasons, most of them nothing of them to do with Europe. I doubt the way Europe and the United Kingdom interact on any level was really even on our radar in any meaningful way. Most of us are just trying to get through the fucking day.
But we all got whipped up by opportunists and money lenders into having an opinion, into a froth of polarisation that shattered the gossamer-thin facade of class and societal unity. While some no doubt had informed convictions either way, for the most part, those of us happy to keep the status quo because everything seemed to be working fine ticked ‘Remain’, while the disaffected, fearful and the ignored channelled their ire and frustration into the ‘Leave’ checkbox.
Now we’ve got the Bumbling Prince of Thieves in No 10 and he is no more equipped to or interested in securing the best deal for the British people than a shark is bothered that its throat might be a tad rough when it swallows your leg.
Can’t we just ‘get it over with?’ Can’t we get back to how things were? what is that exactly? A continually grim struggle amidst the shackles of austerity? Some mythic version of Britain so bucolic and fantastical you’d think Downton Abbey was up the road and the local pub was run by a fucking hobbit? Perhaps somewhere in between.
Fact is, we are a mongrel nation. A stew of cultures, cross pollination, traditions, races, classes and creeds. Even in the Brexit heartlands, that you only have to travel mere minutes to stumble upon a different regional dialect shows just how many different tribes are so densely packed in to such a small collection of islands. This tribalism goes back centuries. You don’t really want to pull at that threat. Inviting us to make such an ill-informed binary choice and pick a side was always going to be a catastrophe.
No, we should not ‘just get on with it’. Not if it’s a bad idea – which all research and evidence would suggest it is. however you voted in 2016, no one voted for this. No one. Because ‘this’ wasn’t on the ballot box.
Now, I don’t know what’s going to happen. But I’m not going to forget my principles, standards nor considered and reasoned research that led me to make what I hoped was an impartial and informed choice. But hey, I’m no expert. We’ve had enough of those so probably just as well.
There was a bit of a hoo-ha recently when it was reported that ITV’s Head Of Comedy, Saskia Schuster has banned all-male comedy writing teams.
Monty Python (less Terry G) 1969: arguably the most famous comedy writing team ever. The Oxbridge graduates used to meet regularly upstairs at Soho’s famous Nellie Dean pub in Soho. Women need not apply.
This lead to all sorts of misguided and unhelpful online outrage about men being marginalised so women could be fast-tracked into the British comedy industry, regardless of merit.
Now, as anyone with even a Trump-sized brain knows, this is not discriminating against men. It’s a laudable attempt to redress the balance in what has historically been a male-dominated space.
The Simpsons writers’ room, early 90s. Note: the only female present is cardboard. And a baby.
Writer and performer Brona C Titley offered this excellent response in The Guardian, which compelled me share my own experience of working in a comedy writers’ room.
My sole experience is an odd one, and not much fun.
I worked on a (thankfully) failed attempt to replicate a US late-night talk show for UK audiences. I spent several weeks trapped in a braying sausage fest, all white men, leftovers from Loaded magazine.
My overriding memory is just how exhausting it was. All the banter about ‘fit birds’ and ‘’aving it large’ (whatever the fuck that means) turning to tedious white noise.
Funny thing is, I was completely marginalised and ignored throughout the process even among ‘my own kind’, because I was the only one in the room who knew nothing about football and wasn’t a lad, thereby somehow invalidating my input.
This wasn’t an awful experience because they were all white men, but because they were monstrous arseholes who happened to be white men. But the fact there was no diversity didn’t help.
You gather together one type of ANYBODY in a room and the experience will nosedive pretty fast.
I’ve had incredibly satisfying creative collaborations exclusively with white men, exclusively with white women, and with a diverse mix of talented people.
Crucially, I’ve also had awful experiences working with all of the above.
Equality and diversity should be encouraged in every endeavour; Titley’s article is bang on. It’s tragic we still even have to say this. But what irks me is that such dialogue in the public space often rapidly descends into identity politics. Which is a cop out.
Monty Python, a lot of whose output has dated horribly, will always be a profound influence. As is Peter Cook and Peter Sellers. As is Jerry Seinfeld and Robin Williams. But I don’t admire them because they are all white men. But because their comedic brains resonate with me. Still do.
The greatest thing about the greatest comedy is that it transcends class, race and gender.
Alternatively, Fleabag, the best comedy I’ve seen in a long time, isn’t superb because Phoebe Waller-Bridge is a woman, it’s because she’s a phenomenal writer, actor and director. But thank God we live in times where she was given the opportunities to gift the world her brilliantly warped mind.
Because, as Titley correctly asserts, everyone who works in the creative industry does so because they were given an opportunity.
Fleabag. Created and written by a hugely talented human. Who happens to be a woman.
There is no doubt that diversity tends to birth infinitely more interesting work – IF the chemistry is there. And I think that’s crucial for me. That’s how you create your best work and ultimately, it’s the work that counts.
Bottom line, I don’t really give a shit who is in the room with me as long as they bring something to the table.
I continue to watch from across the old sea as my country collapses in on itself. Weird times. Strange days.
Three years ago, when we had the chance to stop Brexit, we failed. Even those who canvassed so aggressively to leave looked as surprised as us ‘remoaners’ when the results came in. Gove, Johnson and Farage stumbled out, blinking into the morning light in utter bewilderment.
They tapped into the anti-establishment malcontent, patriotic impotence and paranoid xenophobia that had been brewing among the British population following 2008’s banking crisis and years of subsequent austerity, and their barrage of bluster and bullshit actually convinced some people this might dig us out of whatever hole they perceived us all to be in. Well, look at us all now.
LOOK. AT. US.
We thought it was bad then. It’s a fantasist’s utopia compared to the toxic clown convention currently seeping amidst Whitehall today.
Three years on since we cracked open the Hellmouth, unleashing all these foul demons, and Britain still festers as the punchline of a truly abysmal joke. But here’s the topper. A ridiculous, scheming oaf is set to rule Albion.
We’re about to witness the keys to the Kingdom being handed over to a self-serving shaved ape who lacks the charm or grace to see that he lacks both charm and grace.
A coiffured suet pudding whose existence is so rarified and exclusive, he equates human suffering with not having that fifth helping of Sasquatch steak and mermaid caviar.
A conniving boar-bear chimera who mistakes stubborn tenacity for guiding principles, bare-faced mendacity for political acumen and cheap charisma for intellectual savvy.
A fair-weather politician who switches his views and policies at the drop of his topper to manipulate whomever he is trying to either bully into submission or woo under the jizz-splattered sheets of his extra-marital bedchamber.
To call him a swivel-eyed loon would be an insult to swivel-eyed loons; he is a dog chasing cars.
He just wants to clutch his Golden Snitch, all consequences be damned. A glorified journalist with a nose for popular rhetoric and received opinion, which makes him more dangerous than the facade of public buffoonery might suggest.
At some point in his bafflingly-fascinating life he decided to imitate his political idol Sir Winston ‘it’s complicated’ Churchill.
He thought he could position himself as the determined British Bulldog, chugging down Blitz spirit as he bulldozes his way through to the hearts and minds of the people and into the hallway of Number Ten.
After the Bus Debacle and the very public professional evisceration, we all thought he failed. Then This happened. He’s only gone and done it. He’s only gone and bloody done it.
Despite all those lies, gaffs, tricks and blunders, it’s actually happening.
The worst part? When this overgrown homunculus lumbers into the top job – which he inevitably will – he’ll feel utterly vindicated in his self conviction. That he was right all along. That he was destined to be Prime Minister.
Fuck all you naysayers and fuck all your slandering, he proved them all wrong. He’s reached the top of the tree and you know he will only go down swinging. And all we can do is watch this unholy shitshow unfold in hideous realtime.
There is nothing we can do except witness this monstrous arsehole take the reins and charge the stallions over the precipice.
This is why I drink a lot of gin.
Hello world.
I am thrilled to announce that I have been commissioned by Pen and Sword Books to write a shiny new book about Stan Lee.
In case you didn’t know, Stan is one of the most important creative forces of the twentieth century. He helped shape pop culture as we know it. The cavalcade of flawed, multidimensional characters he co-created for Marvel Comics (including Spider-Man, X-Men, The Fantastic Four, Iron Man, Hulk and Black Panther) still resonate with millions across the globe.
His work helped spawn the most successful film franchise of all time; the Marvel Cinematic Universe has collectively grossed nearly $20 billion – and counting. Not too shabby.
On a personal note, Stan’s iconic work has been a constant in my life. From being an excitable kid prancing around the house in a Spider-Man costume and the hundreds of Marvel comics still gathering dust in my mum’s attic, to bunking off work to catch a 9am screening of the first Avengers film (sorrynotsorry Comedy Central) and now sharing these film with my son, his vibrant imagination continues to excite me no end.
This is a dream come true for a grumpy ageing fanboy such as myself and I can’t wait to get stuck into the next chapter of my career.
I’d like to offer my heartfelt thanks to Hannah George, Marc Burrows, Dave Jackson, Matt McAllister and Kate Bohdanowicz for their help in making this happen. Now all I’ve got to do is write the damn thing. Because as the Man says, with a small amount of power, comes a small amount of responsibility. Or something.
More updates on this, including release dates, to follow. Watch this space.
Despite my complete and utter indifference to football, I am truly sad England are out of the World Cup. My country needed the win. We need to feel triumphant. Upbeat. Positive. Some unifying force in the face of the monstrous clusterfuck that is the current British social and political landscape.
This now goes beyond Brexit. The past few days have exposed, more than ever, the visible abuse of power by the monstrous arsehole convention at the helm. Watching from across the Old Sea, I am astonished by the flagrant disregard the few have for how they may appear to the many. They just don’t care. The Machiavellian chess game once sequestered behind the gates of Westminster has spilled out into the public space. Shameless bungling amateurs scrabbling around in the dirt to gratify their colossal, gossamer-thin egos. It is brazen, it is audacious and it is ugly. It’s like doing the Charleston in front of Stephen Hawking, taking a baseball bat to his chair, then insisting he pay for the damage. That brilliant mind has been mercifully returned to the cosmos to shine for all eternity, but for those of us left behind, we continue to watch this abhorrent shitshow unfold with depressing predictability.
It has rarely been so apparent in British politics that these bloated, psychopathic clowns are prepared to burn down the circus tent and there’s not a damn thing we can do about it. This is their party and we are not invited. Not really. We have the vote, but if policy is based on blatant lies, and we continue to believe whatever bullshit we are fed, that vote is wasted. We are merely spectators left out in the cold, our noses pressed against the window like desperate Dickensian orphans.
The worst part? We just take it. What do we do? March? It’s a distraction that rarely works. If it did, those in power wouldn’t let us do it. Just how angry does the mob have to get before we trade placards for pitchforks and torches?
The current Brexit strategy will please no one. They know this. Meanwhile the bus continues to hurtle towards the precipice without a map. The brakes are worn. The undercarriage is shot. The tyres are burst, flapping against the dirt as a whoop of obnoxious, fatted baboons fight over control of the wheel. Again, I ask, what do we do? Watch Love Island and crack open another beer?
Still. From what I have seen on here, the sterling effort by Southgate and his respected team has ignited a spark in Albion. This Sceptred Isle is a force to be reckoned with. Even if it is only in football, maybe it’s enough. So let’s keep the fires burning, stay in the game and hold on to hope. In the meantime, here’s a baby sloth in a teacup. Isn’t it cute? Have a great day.
Hello world.
Quick update. Just returned from performing improv at the Del Close Marathon in New York. Fortunate enough to do two shows with one of my teams at Improv Comedy Copenhagen. A real honour, a real bucket list ticker and a real treat. Roll on next year!
In other news, my latest column/piece/blog/thingy for The Copenhagen Post is live. It’s all about the terrifying experience I had hosting a cake auction at my son’s nursery summer party. Enjoy!
As you were.
xA
