The following programme contains strong language and adult humour.
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Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome to the stage,
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Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome to the stage,
Rob Beckett...!
Yes, Southend!
Thank you very much!
Oh, I've gone red!
You made me blush! Thank you very much.
Very excited to be here. Thank you so much for that lovely welcome.
Buzzing. Yeah, whoo-hoo! As you put a straw in your vodka and Coke.
You alright. What's your name?
Daisy. Alright, Daisy? Daisy, you u look like you've had
quite a few vodka and Cokes.
Would I be wrong or right?
You're right. I'm right, OK. Fair enough.
Still got your coat on and your bag. Not planning on staying? Too busy.
Good on you, Daisy. I'm very excited to be in Southend.
Love Southend. Big fan of Southend.
The thing is, even if I weren't excited to be here,
you wouldn't be able to tell, because of my face.
I've got the full smiley face. So if I fully relax my face,
this is how it falls.
That's me at rest. Some people have resting bitch face. Like you, mate.
On the end. You're smiling now, but you know,
you've got that kind of stern face. Have you got a serious job?
Insurance.Insurance.
You got to be smiley when it's insurance and yet not.
Terrorism insurance.What's that, sorry?Terrorism insurance. Terrorism insurance. Great.
Perfect, front row.
I'll just dust off all my terrorism stuff for the big TV show.
Is it insurance for the government or the terrorists?
You got Al-Qaeda on speed-dial. "What you need, boys?
What have you got planned?
It's gonna cost yer!"
You've got to have a serious face to work in insurance.
You can't be all smiley-miley. You walk to the speed of your face, do you know that?
if you've got a serious face, you have to walk slow.
When you're smiley like me, you've got to go quick.
"Coming through. Alright? You good? Yeah."
I can't turn a corner slowly with this face. It's unsettling. You see me come round the corner...
Hello.
Has anyone seen Daisy?
Who you in with, Daisy?
Him. No name. Just a little point.
What's your name, mate?Rob.Rob.
And Daisy. What you do, Rob?
A courier.You're a courier. What d'you coury?
Nothing. Nothing?Anything.Anything.
What was that?Parcels. Parcels!
I thought you were heckling, but you were just being informative.
As if I didn't know what a courier was.
"Oh, it's actually parcels, Rob, carry on with the show, please?
It's parcels, mate, like a postman in a van, OK?"
You've been very informative. What's your name?
Tim.Tim. What would you do, Tim?
I'm a support worker. You're a support worker. For autism. I'm trying to do a gig here, mate.
I've got terrorism, front row.
This guy helping people with autism. How am I supposed to make fun out of that?
Fucking hell...
Are you an estate agent? No.
Anyone work in government?
Matt Hancock's new girlfriend in?
You've got Steves in Southend, ain't there?
Give a cheer if you're called Steve. No, maybe there isn't.
Take that back.
Reason I like Southend, why I wanted to film the special here,
is that you are big laughers. You laugh loud.
"I'm Steve. Ha-ha-ha!
Steve with a V. Ha!"
It's like an exorcism. Ha...!
Oh, latecomers, come down, don't worry, don't panic.
You alright there? Can I check your ticket, please?
Just to make sure. It's a special occasion.
Can you come down, please? I will carry this on.
No, don't you... I will come down.
Come down with your ticket, please. I just wanna check something.
Look, can I level with you? I've got a joke I do
when you bring the ticket over. OK?
Help me help you.
So if you can please bring your ticket to the front, I can do my little joke.
They're fucking filming this, alright?
Don't let me down. Bring the fucking ticket up!
Yes.
Come on! Bring it down. Thank you very much.
There you go. Bit quicker, ideally, but she's on camera now.
She's panicking. "Oh, no," she's thinking, "I wore the wrong outfit.
Should've put me hair up." You look lovely. Don't panic. What's your name?
Hallo, Wendy. Yeah, it does say eight o'clock.
Just wanted to check. Yeah.
Just wanted to check if you had the same time as everyone else, Wendy. No drama.
Thanks for coming down, Wend. You alright?
What happened? Get caught in traffic or something?
Yeah? Too far away, can't be bothered.
Leave her, mate, don't worry about it.
Oh dear. Steve. Steve. Southend Steves, why I love it.
You go to Cambridge, they're all Stephen with a 'ph.'
They all laugh inwards.
"Yes. Yes, I would like to laugh, but I'm a bit concerned
about my daughter's SATS exams next week."
Steve's like, "All-nighter? Steve."
It's good to have you here. You two married?
How long have you been together?
13 years. 13 years. Got any kids?
One.One. How old?
Eight. Eight. Who's got the kids tonight?
My mum. Your mum. Does she live nearby?
No. We don't live nearby.
You don't? Where are you from?
Cheshunt.Cheshunt!
OK. Zero response for that. You didn't know what to do there.
I felt you nearly went, "Ooh! Actually, piss off."
I'm not impressed by Cheshunt!
Good to have you here. I'm so happy to be back gigging, to be honest.
Covid went on for too long, didn't it?
Absolute piss-take.
Too much happened in Covid, didn't it?
Philip Schofield came out as gay!
We all forgot!
He's gonna have to do it again.
I hope his wife jotted it down.
I felt sorry for him. 60 years of living a life,
finally, "I'm out! I'm free!" Fuck off, lockdown, indoors.
"I've only just come out!" You're going back in, Scho.
"What am I gonna do?" Have a wank, mate, no deleting the history.
Everyone knows, you don't have to hide the iPad now,
get involved, Sco.
I've not been invited back on 'This Morning.'
It was quite good at swerving family members, Covid.
That was quite good. Ones you didn't like.
I'm still dropping food off at my mother-in-law's doorstep.
There you go, Theresa, I'll just leave that there.
Don't wanna take any chances.
We wouldn't wanna catch anything, would we? Like a conversation.
Good to be out and about, though. What's your name, mate?
Harry? Gary. Oh, the Gary. A dying breed.
They're going extinct, did you know?Are they?
Yeah, people aren't naming their babies Gary,
for obvious reasons.
Great name for a bloke, but not a little, you know...
Baby Gary here.
Do you like Gal, Gazza...?
Anything.Anything, yeah?Anything.
I like you, Gal, you're happy. What do you do,
Gal?I like you.Oh, good. That's why you're here, I imagine.
What do you do, Gal?
I'm retired. Retired. What did you used to do?
I drove a truck.You drove a truck?
Once?
Away from a bank? Very fast?
"Don't worry, Gal's on it."
I like you. He's got a catchphrase already.
Your wife's got her head in her hands.
What's your name?Lynn.Hello, Lynn. 'Course it is. We're in Essex.
Gary and fucking Lynn.
Gary and Lynn!
We all know it's Lynn and Gary, though, to their friends.
Lynn's in charge, isn't she, Gal?
Absolutely.And what about you, Lynn? Does Gary... you look
like you're gonna pass out, Lynn. You alright?
You alright, yeah? Having a good time?
And how long have you been together?
40 years.40 years!
Unbelievable! Anyone longer than 40 years?
Fuck that.Fuck that.
"Fuck that."
I don't know why, but I imagine that man's leaned on a bar.
"Fuck that."
There's always that bloke in the bar, pops in, "Fuck off..."
I think I heard a cheer for that. Was there someone married longer than 40 years?
Fuck that!No. Again.
Oh, no, he's got a catchphrase as well, Gal.
"Fuck that." Now there were, but they may be old and quiet.
Anyone longer than 40 years? Or are Gary and Lynn winning?
You're doing very well to not shout "Fuck that" by the way.
We're all appreciating the hard work you're putting in there.
I could feel your body convulsing.
Looks like you've won, Gary and Lynn.
Everyone loves Gary and Lynn.
Now, what's the secret to 40 happy years together?
He does as he's told.
He does the what? He does as he's told.
Do you, Gal?No.No.
Good to have you here, Gary and Lynn.
Nice to be out, innit?
Have you got kids, Gary and Lynn? No kids. No kids. OK.
That's the secret to a happy marriage. Look at 'em. Absolutely full of beans.
You look fucked, mate.
Brutal. That's the thing. If you are gonna have kids,
the secret is, live near the in-laws or anyone that'll have 'em.
That's the only way to survive.
But the problem is,
our generation's getting older and having kids a bit older,
it means the grandparents are too old to look after the kids.
They can't handle it. My dad's 78. He's got a hernia and diabetes,
and when he sits down he falls asleep.
He's not fit for purpose.
If I got him off a babysitting agency I'd ring the police.
They're rubbish at looking after them.
A boy or girl you've got?
The girl'd be asleep when you got home
or she'd be up, off her face on Haribo,
crying, watching 'Mama Mia' like mine.
I'll pick her up tomorrow. You're picking her up tomorrow? All-nighter? That's how to do it.
That's the dream, innit? You got kids?
Yeah.How old are you kids? Three and six.A brutal age.
Who's got them tonight? My mother.Your mother.
Where's your mum live? It's a weird thing to ask, innit?
"Where's your mum live?"
She lives seven doors down. Seven doors down. From you?
Yep.Or someone. Everyone does.
I live seven doors down from someone.
That's good, innit? That's your mum.
How do you feel about seven doors down from your mother-in-law, mate?
It's alright.A bit under pressure with the camera three centimetres from your face.
Yeah, tell us what you think about your mother-in-law.
Come on, mate, open up, let us know how it goes.
Yeah. Yeah. This is terrorism now, mate.
D'you love it? Do you love being that close?
Now we've got kids, it's brilliant. Now you've got kids, it's brilliant. Good answer.
What was it like before?Dogshit.
Dogshit.
Fair enough. "Fucking dogshit."
There's normally one posher side of the couple.
In my case, my wife's posher than me. What about you two?
What's going on? I'll give it to her.
You'd give it to her. OK. And who's posher?
You're a little bit posher, I can get that.
Little bit more decorum. He's a bit more terrorism insurance.
I do get on with the in-laws, but it's a bit awkward,
cos they're quite posh and I'm not. So, for example,
growing up, my wife saw Prince William and Prince Harry
playing polo, where I as a kid once saw a horse being put in the back of a transit van.
That's the different worlds we're from. I knew they were posh
when I got invited on a family holiday to Center Parcs.
Cheer if you've been to Center Parcs. Now give me a cheer if you've been in August.
That's what I'm talking about.
Different level.
Different breed of human at Center Parcs in August.
Saudi princes knocking about.
Jeff Bezos on the rapids.
Elon Musk doing a bit of pitch'n'putt.
Sure, we've all been in February.
When it's minus-five and 200 quid.
Your child on a bike, crying, freezing from the cold.
"Just so cold, Mum!"
"Stop whingeing, I've saved three grand!
The other giveaway they were posh, I got invited round
and she went, "Would you like a cup of tea?" "Go on, then."
"Breakfast or Earl Grey?" I panicked and just had lunch,
I didn't know what Earl Grey was.
Then she offered me a Red Bush. I nearly fainted.
Calm it down, Theresa, will yer? Only just met.
Cos they look after the kids a lot, I try and get them a nice Christmas present
to say thanks. I got 'em a coffee machine.
But a proper good one. Delonghi, Costco, grind your own bean.
We've all got a pod-based system, that's the next level, innit?
They can go shopping for coffee beans, go Waitrose,
"Ooh, what shall we have? Ethiopian or Colombian? Mah..."
That is a drink. You're a bit fancy, a bit posh,
what are you doing in the morning? You grinding your bean?
Yeah, I do make my coffee. You do make your coffee.
Fair enough. What about you? Just a bit of Gold Blend up the nose?
Nescafe on the gums, ready to go to work?
Oh dear. Daisy, gonna take your coat or bag off or not?
You can take your coat off if you wanna chill out a bit.
Did you bring that in, that can, or is that...? You smuggled it in?
Smuggling in your own tinnies.
The perfect crime.
Have you got more in your bag? That why you don't wanna put it down? Yes.
My big night, Daisy's smuggling in drinks.
It's alright, I won't tell anyone.
Keep that between me and you, yeah?
Anyway, this coffee machine I bought my in-laws,
they didn't want it, unfortunately. I know! Exactly my response.
Got 'em this lovely coffee machine, thought they'd love it.
They said they didn't want it, gonna take it back.
How comes? She said, "We haven't got enough space on the side."
They have got so much fucking side.
Big middle-class kitchen full of side.
Nothing out, everything put away. Cos when you're middle-class,
it can't look like you live in your own house, that's the rule.
It looks like it's for sale at all times.
Lou started doing it to me. She went, "Rob, can you put the towels away?"
"I have. They're on the banister. That's where they go."
Cos when you're working-class, you never run out of side. The side just gets higher.
The top of the coffee machine becomes the new side.
That's where you put your phone and keys.
The rule growing up... we lived in a three-bed terraced house,
if it could fit in the door it was allowed in the house.
I've played on fruit machines in the kitchen.
Jukebox in the hallway.
We had a snooker table in the loft.
Ever played snooker in a loft? Fits width-ways, not height,
everyone crabbing around like a miner.
Love it! Chronic backpain.
Chronic neck pain. Love snooker in the loft.
45 degrees in summer, minus-20 in winter. Love it.
I said, "Fair enough, if you don't want the coffee machine,
that's fine. But what are you gonna get instead with the money?"
She said, "We're gonna take it back, Rob."
It was the most middle-class conversation I've ever had.
'We're gonna take it back, Rob, so that we can buy
a Le Creuset tagine."
I'm stood there, thinking, "I'm gonna have to Google both of them."
I'll take my chances on "Le."
I said, "How comes?"
She said, "Well, between you and me, Rob, unfortunately
my casserole dish is simply too deep for coq-au-vin."
I said, "I don't know how you sleep at night."
Too deep for coq-au-vin? How you getting down there? Rope ladder and a ladle?
I'd never heard of coq-au-vin till I went to their house for lunch.
She went, "Coq-au-vin." I panicked, went, "Van, please."
Coq-au-vin? Vin for me.
Each to their own, I'm a vin man.
Had coq for lunch, as it goes.
Stuffed full of the stuff. Couldn't get another coq in me if you tried.
Vin for me. Give me another 30 years I might scofe it up, but no, vin.
Thank you so much for coming. I've done Southend so many times
and this is the fun bit, you get to do these theatres
full of people, this is the fun bit of the tour. Love it.
But when you're getting the show together, that's the hard bit. This is the fun bit,
when the rooms are all sold out.
Some of the weird, random places I've been to,
trying to get the show worked out, Maesteg, Redruth, Much Wenlock,
places I haven't heard of since I went there,
like they were invented by the promoter.
I did a gig in a place called Uffculme.
Anyone?
Anyone know Uffculme? No? Devon.
In Devon, correct. Have you been?
Yeah.Yeah? Are you sure you're not thinking of Ilfracombe?
Cos that's where I thought I was going.
There is nothing in Uffculme.
I got the train to Barnstaple, got out the station,
went to the cab driver. "Hello, mate, I need to go to Uffculme."
He went, "Never heard of it." "We're fucked.
If you don't know, who does?"
In the end he got an A to Z out. I've not seen an A to Z
for about 20 years. I mean, young people in tonight... Any 18-year-olds in?
Anyone in young?21.
Are you 21? What's your name, mate?
Matt. Matt. Do you know what an A to Z is?
I've heard of it. You've heard of it.
Like the Battle of Hastings.
Battle of Hastings, Great Fire of London...
.. A to Z.
Basically, imagine if someone printed off Google Maps
and put it in a book. That's what it is.
What about Teletext? Know Teletext? Yeah, you know Teletext?
Yeah. Do you know what this is about?
That was the internet, Matt.
56k mandem modem.
Only the OGs know 56k.
That's when the computer was as big as a fridge
and it lived in the front room.
You had to wait for everyone to go to bed before you had a wank, Matt.
You here with your mum? Sorry.
You was only allowed on the internet after six and at weekends,
cos that's when it was free. And if your mum picked up the landline,
the internet stopped.
That's how powerful mums were in the '90s.
That's why Karens have got such big energy.
They used to run the internet. Now what have they got?
Crew cut and hoop earrings, that's it.
We find Uffculme in the A to Z. We drive for 50 minutes
and there is nothing, just fields. No animals, no people,
no houses, no wind. Nothing.
We turn a corner, there's a theatre there for no reason whatsoever.
Like National Lottery funding that got out of hand.
They built the theatre, forgot the town.
There was 100 people in there, I don't know where they came from.
I don't know if they're still there.
I just spoke at 'em for an hour and left.
The only thing I realised was, I was calling it Oof-culme,
cos it's U-F-F-C-U-L-M-E.
"No, it's Uff-culme. Uff-culme."
I think Uffculme's worse than Oofculme.
I'd rather be from, you know, Oofculme than Uffculme.
'Uffculme' sounds like a northerner when they've prematurely ejaculated.
"Ah, no...!"
"Uff culme!"
I slag my in-laws off a lot in this show
and the only reason I'm allowed to do that
is if I slag off my family now.
That was the trade-off I had with Lou.
I'm from a very large family in southeast London.
I've got hundreds of cousins.
My mum and dad between them have got about eight, nine siblings.
Nan and Granddad have got about 35 altogether.
I've got cousins fucking everywhere.
And I've got some lovely family. Mum and Dad, brothers, Aunty Tina,
good as gold. However I'm also related to some absolute scum.
Filth. Horrendous mob.
People go to me, "Bet you want to do that 'Who Do You Think You Are.'"
No.
No, I do not. Because I know who I am.
And I don't want anyone else to.
That'd be a terrible episode. "OK, Rob, we're off to Belmarsh Prison
and Crayford dog track."
Fingers crossed, I'm related to a dog.
The problem with having so much family
is, I can't go to the Kent coast on a bank holiday weekend,
cos I'm related to half the beach.
It's like a family reunion. It's like Friends Reunited.
Yeah? Which was a website for old people, Matt.
Facebook for old people.
If I go down to the beach down in Kent,
it's just full of my family. And you know they're my family,
same mouths, different heights, all the way along.
"Hello, Rob, you good? What's your mum up to these days? Your dad still at that firm?
Where is Romesh? Heh-heh."
All the way along the beach.
My extended family are actually the White Cliffs of Dover.
It's just an illusion.
Some of the weddings I went to, growing up, oh my life... Brutal.
I swerve a lot of them now, you do that as you get older.
You swerve some of the wrong 'uns.
No? Don't you? Maybe you're the wrong 'uns.
Don't know where I stand on that.
Some of the weddings I went to, growing up... Anyone here
been to a wedding where you have to take a ham?
Taking a ham to a wedding.
Basically, there was a wedding every weekend. Sometimes the same bride.
And cos there was so many family that had to be invited,
you couldn't afford to feed all of them. So you'd get a pub function room
and then all the families would bring something for the buffet.
Someone would do the ham, someone would do potatoes,
someone would do salad. And I don't wanna show off,
but being in charge of the ham was quite a big deal.
"We'll do the gammon.
Dave's had a few Heathrow airport runs in the cab,
we're doing alright.
We'll take the ham this week, no biggie.
Sue's boiling it in Coca-Cola, she's ready to go."
That was a big mum trend about 15 years ago,
the old Coca-Cola-boiled ham.
"We done the ham. We got the ham. We did the ham. No biggie.
Yeah, we're doing alright, we got the ham."
Then some cousin you've not seen for years, married someone rich, bowls in.
He's got a poached salmon.
Cucumber sliced up on it to look like scales. In a dish the shape of a fish
in case I didn't know what I was fucking eating.
"Thanks for that mate, didn't know what that pink thing that stunk of fish was.
Salmon, is it?
I'll get a pig bowl for my ham next time, shall I?
Little Percy Pig face.
Percy there, so we know what meat I'm guzzling down."
There's always one complete wrong 'un in the family.
Everyone hates him, owes everyone money, never had a job. Whinges.
Absolute piece of shit.
Complete disgrace.
St George's cross on his Facebook profile pic.
For the wrong reasons.
He bowls in late. He's in charge of crisps.
What a loser. How shit are you doing at life to be at the bottom rung
of this wedding?
He bowls in late, six kids, not even all of them,
just the ones he can remember to pick up.
He's got one tube of Pringles.
Come on, mate, you know that ain't enough crisps.
That's not enough crisps for the kids you've brought.
He's, "I can't afford it, can I? I'm skint, ain't got no money.
It's alright for you with your ham. I'm skint, ain't got no money.
I'm skint at the moment.
Ain't got a pot to piss in, me.
You know I can't get a job, I struggle with my mood,
I can't get up in the morning."
On his 40th cigarette of the morning...
"Ain't got no money, have I?" Blowing smoke all over the buffet.
"That ham's already smoked, you chavvy bastard.
Have a puff on his salmon."
Everyone smoked when I was a kid.
I sort of forgot smoking existed in lockdown,
cos me and Lou don't smoke and the kids ain't started yet.
I forgot it was a thing! It was when I was on an aeroplane
after lockdown, I got reminded by the No Smoking sign.
I just thought, "Oh, yeah, smoking." Second, "Who's that for?
Who don't know yet?
Who don't know it's no smoking on a plane?"
Just one geezer at the back... "Since when?!
These Covid rules are fucking mental!
Absolute joke, mate."
You might as well have a No Barbecue sign up there.
For the one bloke at the back of a flight with a disposable from Asda.
"You what?
Since when?!
Can't have a barbecue on holiday?! Fucking Brexit.
Angela Merkel's not telling me what I can eat."
Might as well have a No Wanking sign.
"What, no wanking, is it? Sorry. I've not flown since Covid.
New normal. No wanking.
I've got me triple booster. Is that enough? No? Fair enough.
Getting used to the new normal. I'll go the toilet like everyone else, fair enough."
Brutal.
Feel sorry for smokers, it's hard being a smoker.
Any smokers in?
Couple. I know there's a few more.
You can't admit to it any more. You're sort of outcasts.
You get treated so badly, innit? Cigarette? Get outside.
Get in the street.
Piss off round the corner, fuck off, get out.
Get treated like a dog. Yargh!
It's brutal out there for smokers. You don't get the respect you deserve.
The commitment level you have for smoking is unparalleled.
I respect your hustle. They're not allowed to advertise
anymore. You just have to remember.
That's impressive. Innit?
No adverts. You go down the shop and they've hidden them.
No posters, no signage,
it's just a tobacco Easter egg hunt in the shop.
Wandering around. Where was it? Where do they sell it?
Oh, I remember, it's at the front. They hid it cos it's bad,
they've hidden it behind the scratch cards, cos they're fine.
What trouble has gambling done? Can't see a cigarette,
little leprechaun fella, "Give us a tenner?"
Then you buy the cigarettes. It's 48 quid for three.
It's not stopped you. Still ploughing on. Respect.
Massive respect. You get the cigarette, on it the most disgusting photo
you have ever seen.
Some sort of rotting flesh. Mouth, lung, arsehole, who knows?
Don't give a shit, mate, I'm a smoker. I'm going in.
And then you plough on. Any smokers?
Ey! I'd shake your hands if I could. Big, crusty, yellow hands.
Good on yer.
Don't let the haters get you down. Good on yer.
I'll come round your house, big, smelly, yellow curtains.
Good on yer.
Like living in a beehive.
Big ol' crusty talon fingers. Come here! Piss off, man!
Good on yer. Don't let the haters get you down.
People say, "You shouldn't say that, Rob, smoking is bad for your health.
It's bad for your lungs." You know what?
Running marathons is bad for your knees.
At least I don't have to sponsor you to smoke.
Cos I'm sick of that, sick of the Marathon.
30 quid down at the end of the week cos your mate wants to go for a jog?
Really? You try and swerve it, you think, I'll just swerve him.
I won't go to that pub again. Before you know it,
you're on a WhatsApp group with everyone you've ever known.
There's no escape. You donate. 30 quid.
It says, "Would you like to donate anonymously?" No.
I really wouldn't like that.
I want everybody to know what I have done.
Rob Beckett, caps lock, begrudgingly.
There's always someone running a marathon. "I bet it's difficult, running the Marathon." Is it?
Looks quite busy to me.
Nothing that hard should have a queue at the start, should it?
There's loads of skinny blokes going through a divorce running.
I'd run it too if I lived in their house, looks like hard work.
"Oh, but it's for charity, Rob. I'm doing it for charity, not for me."
Yeah, come on, turn it in. It's for you.
So you'll feel good about yourself.
So you can put your little Facebook/Instagram picture up.
"Ooh, did it! Got a medal!
Finally did it! Marathon done!
LDN Marathon complete. Tick."
You're not doing it for charity. If you're really doing it for charity,
here's 30 quid to run it, 100 quid to have a shit on the finish line.
I don't know if vaping's any better for you. Anyone vaping?
What flavour are you on?
What was that? "Cher-ee." OK, thank you.
Thank you very much indeed. "Cher-ee."
I think you started the Essex accent, personally.
Cher-ee. Thank you. OK.
See, my problem with vapes, it looks weird.
Looks like you're sucking off a USB stick.
Odd. Some sort of technology kink.
And there's too much of it. You can't talk to anyone.
It's too... "You going away this summer?
Where's he gone?"
Like having a catch-up with Houdini.
The worst is when you walk down the high street. If you're behind someone vaping,
you've not got a chance. It's like being stuck behind the Polar Express.
Zero visibility.
'in hell! Leave it out, will yer?!
Thank God I played snooker in that loft.
I only know where I am cos I can smell lush.
Roll-ups are slightly better. I don't know, they creep me out.
Weird, innit, roll-ups? Sort of, it's a big smug.
"Oh, I can make it better, actually.
I could make it better than the billion-dollar companies with my little technique."
You also look a bit like a camp T-Rex when you're doing it.
And I think there's an age limit on rollups. If you're over 60,
like that, you just look like a paedophile.
Immediately my paedar goes off. Paedo.
It's horrible. Quite intimate, isn't it, a roll-up?
Bit more. Always so near their face.
Bit more.
And the worst bit is when they're nearly finished,
you know they're nearly finished...
Not ready yet, I'd like a bit more, actually.
Little bit more. Little bit more. Ready now.
Urgh!
What is that, you fucking lizard of a man?
It's like a human typewriter.
Like a computer for old people, Matt.
Don't mind if students smoke roll-ups, they're skint,
but normally it's posh students. I hate posh students that pretend to be poor
when they get to uni, for a bit of edge.
"I've got no money, crazy, isn't it? It's a nightmare. God, it's shit, isn't it, having no money?"
They're in their dad's holey Barbour jacket. "It's a bloody nightmare.
I haven't got money for a flight to our place in France this year. It's crazy."
They smoke roll-ups for a bit of edge. You see that.
I see them at music festivals a lot. "Hey, man, got a skin? A rolly?
Hey, man, wanna roll it up and smoke. Got a skin?
Hey, man, got a skin?"
"I got fore, but I don't think you wanna smoke it, mate.
I'd like to see you roll it, if I'm honest with you.
You've got no chance. Like the back of a puppy's neck down there."
Not the same size, obviously. Wider, unfortunately for me.
The old hockey-puck fuck, they call me.
Sorry, Mum. Sorry about that.
They are funny, though, foreskins, let's be honest.
It's a divided world at the moment, but I think we can all agree
the foreskin's a funny little fella.
Some sort of weird leftover elbow thing, innit?
What the fuck is that on the end of that?
Sad little slug of a thing.
It always looks like it's just been told off, don't it?
The foreskin's, "I'm sorry.
Sorry I look like this.
I don't wanna look like this either!
I'm so sad. Used to be so proud!"
What I'm trying to get at is, smoking's not good for yer.
That's my point.
You've got to look after your health. I had to go to the doctor last summer
for my first ever medical finger up the bum.
Anyone had a medical finger up the bum?
Yeah? Just a couple of us. Fair enough.
It's coming for you, blokes, it's sort of the rules of ageing.
But anyway, it's all fine after the check-up.
Basically, what happened was, you just can't go out on the piss
for three months solid during the Euros and eat chicken by a bin and get away with it.
There will be repercussions to your body.
But I've been healthier and it's all sorted now.
I went in to see the doctor. It was an Asian doctor,
which is difficult for me, means I have to talk to him about Romesh for half an hour.
Don't get me wrong, I love Romesh, but I don't wanna talk about him
pre, post or during a fingering.
That's just me.
Quite enjoyed the awkwardness there, where you thought I'd gone racist out of nowhere about Asian doctors.
"We was all having a laugh, then Rob went a little bit..."
Anyway, so I was sat there. Lovely doctor.
But I weren't really listening to him. All I was doing
was trying to work out how big his fingers were.
Weighing 'em up from afar.
Anyway he gets me on the bed, I'm facing the wall,
lying on my side, trousers and pants down by my ankles, right?
Like first night in prison.
I'm laying there for him to do it. I heard the squeeze of lube.
Don't "er" that, you want lube, you nutters.
Who's going in bareback and dry with a doctor for the first time?
Some absolute geezer. "Don't you namby-pamby me,
put the lube away, put your finger up there and let me get back to work."
You want lube. Lube's your best friend in that situation.
As he squeezes the lube, I hear the door burst open.
Receptionist bowls in, because at some point
during lockdown, receptionists of GPs were put in charge of the whole of the NHS.
Their attitude is mental. They just do what they want!
They're still shouting at us through a window at our doctor.
"No, online appointments only!"
"Can't I ring up?" "Yes, you can, between 7.01 and 7.03
every other Thursday."
"I've got a rash!" "You can take a photo of it." "I can't reach!"
She left after chatting about someone's prescription.
I know what you're thinking, "How did you know she was there?" I could feel the breeze.
I'm laying there and I'm waiting for him to go in.
I was expecting... a shallow and slow procedure.
I couldn't have been more wrong. It was deep and it was fast!
He went in and span me around like I'm on a fucking Waltzer.
I didn't know what day of the week it was! I was like a basketball
on a Harlem Globetrotter's finger!
Like them inflatable geezers outside the carwash.
He goes, "While I'm up here I'll check the prostate."
"You're not nipping to the shops, mate, get on with it!"
Anyway, I've got the all-clear, it's all fine.
But he's booked me in twice a week for the next six months.
New NHS guidelines. He comes to me. Don't even have to go to the surgery. Good guy.
I hope... I think that my generation will talk about that stuff
a bit more openly, where the older generation don't.
My dad, he's in his 70s, geezer from southeast London,
"Nah, I am not having someone put their finger up me.
Nothing is going in me. I'd rather be dead.
Not gonna happen. Back off, Doc."
They're getting older, my parents. My dad's 78, my mum's 68.
Ten-year age gap, disgusting, innit? Slash legend,
however you're looking at it.
They met when they were 19. My mum was 19, let's get that clear.
It's a nightmare having old parents. It's like a vintage car,
there's always something going wrong with them.
I just put 'em in the garage now, get 'em out in April, hose 'em down.
I rung home the other, spoke to my mum. My mum answers.
My mum rings me. My dad never answers or rings me.
If my phone rings and it says 'Dad,'
either two things have happened. My mum's phone's died
or she's died.
I rung home. "Hello, Mum, how's it going?" "Yeah, all good.
How are you?" "Yeah, not bad. Where's Dad?" "Oh, he's in the cab."
"Oh, is he at work, cabbing?" "No, he's just sat in the cab."
"What, sat in the cab outside the house?" "Yeah." "Why?"
She goes, "He don't feel well."
"That don't explain it, Mum. Why is he doing that?"
"Well, his life insurance pays out more if he dies at work."
So now, if my dad don't feel well...
.. he sits in his cab until he feels better.
Or dies.
He had to have his cataracts done the other day.
He's like Trigger's broom, I don't know what's left of his.
I had to pick him up from hospital. He had both eyes done the same day,
which I didn't think was allowed, personally.
I thought they'd do one eye, send you home, do the other one.
He came out, couldn't see a thing. Stumbling about like that.
Anyway, I get him in the car. I've got Gabrielle playing, to try and lift the mood.
I thought they were doing one.
If I knew they were doing both, I'd have put a bit of Stevie on.
Bit of Bocelli on the A10.
Anyway, we're driving home. Driving home.
I'm not a very good driver, only ever learned automatic,
my dad has driven all his life, lorries, trucks, tankers,
vans. He loves it. He's a bit ashamed I never did gears.
I wind him up at roundabouts, pretending I don't know what's happening. I go,
"Dad, I don't know what to do. I'll get in the middle, wait for someone to come on the inside
and then accelerate and scream. Is that right?"
He's sat there, can't see a thing. We're driving home.
We get to the family home. He parked his taxi round the corner
the night before. I'm trying to reverse-park into the space outside our house.
OK? Just so he can get straight in. I'm struggling.
He's parked in this space for the last 30 years.
I'm half in, half out. Can't do it.
Traffic's building. Neighbours are watching and heckling.
They're aware of the beef between me and my dad over driving.
In and out, in and out, jutting forward, back and forth.
Eventually he goes, "Get out, I'll do it."
I go, "Dad, you can't see!"
He went, "You can, you still can't fucking park it."
So I've got out the car and let him do it.
I got me phone out, filming it, thought it'd be a good TikTok or something.
Anyway, got in the car. I never saw anyone concentrate more.
Pure focus. And he sat there for a moment.
I dunno if it was muscle memory, parking in his space every day,
or he just geezered it in, like, "Have that, you mug. Get in."
But somehow... he had his cataracts done an hour ago,
he parked it perfectly, first time, even palming it in like that.
And for no reason whatsoever, looked behind him.
He gets out the car, slams the door and goes, "You are an embarrassment."
Then he walked into next door's garden.
I'm trying to keep healthy. I'm 36, it's sort of a turning point.
Sort yourself out or just get bigger.
And I got bigger in lockdown. I ate so much food in lockdown.
The problem is, when you've got kids, you end up eating their leftovers.
I'm on about 57 fishfingers a week.
I'm like a seagull trapped in my own fucking house.
Just stood over the bin, going...
Just different beige shapes.
Launching the veg in the bin. Fuck off.
I joined the gym to try and sort myself out, right?
At the induction, big, ripped geezer, perfect body,
looked like Cristiano Ronaldo, but thick, couldn't even speak. He even breathed thick.
You know, some people...? In and out at the same time.
How many lungs has this geezer got?
Ideally, can we swap heads and go our separate ways?
"What is it you wanna achieve?" "Look, I'll be honest with you.
I don't want to run a marathon, I don't want a six-pack.
All I want from the gym is to be able to drive over a speed-bump
without my tits jiggling.
That is all I'm here for.
I don't mind them staying the same size, I just want them hard.
It's a disgrace at the moment, left tit's going wild,
the other one's held down by the seatbelt,
smacking the mirror, hitting my wife. It's horrible."
There was a moment when I knew I needed to lose weight.
I was on holiday in Slovenia, Lake Bled. It's beautiful.
This island in the middle of a lake, white church, looks like something from Disney.
Snow-capped mountains round the edges, amazing.
There's people getting married, rowing boats, picnics,
Lou, my wife, sunbathing on this pontoon,
Slovenian family next to her. I'm having a swim.
And I think to myself, "I'm gonna get on that pontoon."
I don't know where that confidence came from.
I just saw people on a pontoon, thought, I'm a people, why not me?
I don't know why I was confident at all,
because I struggle in a swimming pool sometimes.
You go on holiday, it's a new pool, new hotel, you're in the deep end,
having a swim, and you think to yourself,
I'm gonna get out of this pool.
But I'm not swimming to the steps like some sort of fucking virgin.
No offence, mate.
I'm swimming to the closest edge, putting my hands on the side,
pushing up, hopping out, walking off, cos that's who I am.
But problem is, when you're in the pool,
and you swim up to the edge,
you push yourself up, get stuck halfway...
.. with no power in arm or leg to go anywhere else.
Stuck there like that, marooned. Top half out, bottom half in,
like a flirty mermaid.
Everyone's looking. Nothing stops.
Poolside chat quicker than a fat geezer's fart.
The cast of 'Love Island' could walk past. "What's he gonna do?"
Unfortunately for me, I've got hefty nipples as well.
Scene-stealingly big nips, Jaffa Cake nips. Burger nips.
They look like a pair of Wombles' noses.
Creeping out, what's going on 'ere?
Wobbling a bit as me arms give way.
I'm stuck there, don't know what to do.
I ambitiously lift my leg up, as if I'm gonna whip it round.
Like I'm Max Whitlock, or The Undertaker.
Just stuck there. You've only got two options in that situation.
Option one, flop on your belly, drag yourself out.
Like a sad little slug.
Like a zombie with no legs, grabbing onto anything you can,
loungers, umbrellas, toddlers, launching 'em.
Scratching your belly on the rough bit.
Designed to stop you slipping in. I'm trying to fucking slip out.
Red-raw belly, all sore.
People coming up to me, "Oh, have you caught the sun?" No.
I haven't caught the sun. I'm just too fat and weak to support my own body.
So I dragged my gut along the floor,
like a poorly Basset Hound.
Depressingly, that's your best option. Option two,
even more degrading. Stuck there. Slide back in.
The ultimate humiliation.
They know you wanna be out, you know you wanna be out.
Lost feeling in your arm. You can't push off anymore,
you have to slide down, belly on the ledge.
Up to your tits, two poached eggs on a platter, sat there.
Slip down, bang your chin and drag yourself out in shame.
Knowing you have to look those people in the eye at the buffet tomorrow morning.
Anyway, Lake Bled. Don't know if you know much about lakes. No steps.
I've got one shot at this pontoon. Lou's there, Slovenians are there.
I think I've not got the stamina to drag this out. Got to get on that pontoon as quick as possible.
I swam as fast as I possibly could.
Got to the pontoon, there's a rope on it, used my momentum,
pulled up, jumped up in the air. At one point
I wasn't touching lake or pontoon.
Just stuck in the air like that. I land on the pontoon.
Lou fucks off to Slovakia.
I've launched her on land.
Slovenians are clinging on for dear life.
I'm half on, half off, kicking like a nutter.
From the shore, it looks like a shark attack.
They can't work out who's attacking who, they can just see teeth and water.
I've become medically out of breath immediately.
Like how out of breath you get when you run for the last train and make it. You burst on.
"You alright?" " I was running for the train."
I'm clawing myself on. Trunks are slipping down.
Arse is hanging out, top of pubes, always worse.
I'm a Rizla away from a foreskin flash at this stage.
Drag myself on, roll over.
Lou's pissing herself laughing. Slovenians can't get enough of it.
Fuck off!
Nothing worse than someone laughing at you in another language.
Laying there, taking it. "Herderdo walrus." You fucking what?
Walrus?!
I was in denial. I was, "Maybe 'walrus' is something else.
Maybe that's Slovenian for 'big dick legend.'"
It's not, it means walrus.
It's the only word that's the same.
I mean, in their defence, they were right to laugh at me,
cos I have got a weird body shape.
I've hidden it for years, but I'm gonna share it with you tonight,
cos I'm so lovely. I've got... I've got a really weird body.
The proportions are all weird. I've got really long legs.
I've got the legs of a 6'3" man. I'm 5'8"
I've just got no middle. So I hide it wearing t-shirts out,
jeans low, or with a suit I wear a waistcoat.
Last summer, I had to go to a wedding.
We went to the wedding place and I said, "Mate, I need a waistcoat.
I'm part of the groom's party. I need a waistcoat, cos I've got mental legs.
It's the only way." He went, "I've spoken to the bride,
you have to have matching for the photos." Fucking photos.
"But mate, my legs, they're too long. It won't work."
He went, "Trust me, you've never had a proper pair of tailored trousers.
Trust me and it'll be fine." So he went and got me... a shirt.
Oh yeah. Fucking drink it in.
Drink it in. He got me a shirt, he made some trousers for me.
He went, "Don't worry, mate, you've never had a proper pair of trousers done."
He got me these trousers, he made me wear 'em with a shirt
on my waist. Right?
He measured me up.
That's the top of me legs.
Belly button's on the belt.
And he went to me, "There you go, mate, that's how you should be wearing 'em."
I went to a wedding like this.
I'm tagged on Facebook like this.
Next to a woman on the best day of her life...
I just... I'm just tits and teeth. Where do my organs live?
It's like a Playboy bunny that went wrong.
I got to the wedding with my wife and daughters.
"Daddy?" I said, "Yes?"
She said, "Why have you come dressed as Despicable Me?"
Southend, you've been amazing. Thank you so, so much.
See you soon. Goodnight!
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