All language subtitles for Ed Gamble - 2019 - Blood Sugar

Please
welcome to the stage Ed
Gamble!

Yes,
please!

Hey,
there.

Yeah. Too
much.

Definitely too
much.

I picked the music on the
way in. That was my choice.

That's my vibe. I like
heavy metal music.

Statistically, that was
the amount of people that
would enjoy that music.

That's the sort of music
I'm into. I like heavy
metal music.

I'm a bit of a metal head.
I'm aware there's confusion
in the room.

I don't look like I like
heavy metal music.

I do not have a heavy
metal face.

I have what is
known as a Coldplay
face.

Drink-it-in, basic-bitch,
indie-white-man face, that's
me.

Other metal heads
don't trust me
either.

Can't go to the gigs cos they
get suspicious of me.

Cos I look like an
undercover Mormon on a
conversion mission.

I look like I'm gonna sneak
up behind people in the
crowd,

going, "Hey, pretty
rocking band, right?"

"You know who else was
rocking?

"Lord Jesus Christ our
Saviour.

"Hey, love the guitarist.
Love his look, long hair and
a beard.

"You know who else
had long hair and a
beard?

"That's right. Lord Jesus
Christ our Saviour again.

"He's always the
answer. Amen, amen.

"Praise be. What's this
we're all doing?

"Head-banging? Yeah,
cool. I do head-banging
too.

"But when I do it,
it's to get rid of
gay thoughts."

If there are any metal heads
in, just want to let you know
I've got cred.

I was in a band when I was
15 years old, a metal band.

I did one gig with that
band before I was fired
from that band.

Here's the reasons I was
fired from the band.

I smiled too much during
the gig.

I spotted someone that I
knew in the audience and
waved at them.

The main one is... You
know at metal gigs
everyone does this?

That is the sign of the
beast, right? The devil's
horns.

Shows you're part of
the community.

I've never really done
that before. I've always
felt too self-conscious.

I was on stage at that gig
and suddenly my arm shot up
in the air.

I was like, "I'm doing
it. I'm actually joining
in.

"I'm finally part of
something. How exciting."

I looked up and what my
hand was actually doing was
this.

They said, "You're gonna
have to leave."

I said, "I don't have to be
the singer. I don't have to be
up front.

"I can be at the
back. I play an
instrument."

They said, "What instrument
do you play?"

I then had to admit that the
instrument I used to play was
the bassoon.

You'll never have seen a
bassoon in a heavy metal band
before.

And a large majority of you
will have never seen a
bassoon before.

It's five foot tall, it
sounds like a fart. That's
all you need to know.

And I was rubbish at it. I
mean, I was so rubbish at it.

I think if you're Hendrix
levels of good at any
instrument

you can be in any band you
want.

But I could only really play
one track. And I've called it a
track.

It was Three Blind Mice. That
is the only track I could play.

And that will not fit into any
Slayer riff you've ever heard.

So they fired me, fired me
from Tethered Priest.

Oh, I should have let you
know.

The name of the
band was Tethered
Priest.

I came up with that. I was
quite proud of it at the
time.

Nothing I can do about that
now.

At the time I thought it
was quite cool and
anti-religious.

That's kind of part
of being heavy
metal.

Down with Christianity,
that sort of thing,
right?

Thinking about it, Tethered
Priest isn't anti-religious
at all.

Tethered Priest just makes me
sound like a responsible
priest owner.

Like, "Yes, I have a pet
priest.

"But he is a giddy
little priest.

"So, when I take him for
walkies, I will abide by
council by-laws

"and put him on a
lead."

"Heel, Father.
Heel.

"Stop sniffing the
other priests' bums.
I'm so sorry.

"Get back here.
What breed is
yours?

"Ooh, Roman
Catholic? Very nice,
yeah.

"We had one of those but we
had to get rid of it when we
had kids.

"Come
on."

I think we could all broadly
see what direction that joke
was heading in.

But the approach was quite
artful so I think I got away
with it.

If there are any Christians
in, I don't mean to offend
you.

I'm not anti-religious
now.

Jesus?
Wow.

Great guy, wasn't
he?

Oh, yeah, lovely lad was
old Jesus.

And he doesn't get enough
credit for this, I've got to
say.

Ooh, lovely body on
Jesus.

Check out the rig on
Jesus.

Lovely.
Phwoar!

Jesus had muscles I don't even
know the name for.

Those ones, you
know.

The...

The dick arrows. Jesus
had the dick arrows.

Come on! The dick
arrows.

You got the dick arrows? No,
no, I was just being nice.

The dick
arrows.

Me neither, mate. Me
neither.

Cor. Go on! That's how he
got his name.

Someone saw those and
went, "Jesus Christ."

Incredible.

Bit arrogant, though. He knew
he had to stay in shape.

He thought, "Son of
God.

"One day I'm gonna be on the
front cover of the Bible.

"I've gotta stay in
shape."

He was supposed to be
crucified with his top on.

He said, "Absolutely
not. I'm not wasting all
this.

"Tops off to die,
thank you very
much.

"Fuck it, I'll carry
the crucifix,

"make sure I'm double pumped
up by the time I arrive."

That was the original
CrossFit.

Correct to applaud. That joke
was a gift from God.

I don't have a Jesus
body myself. Always
striving.

Last year I went to my
first ever spin class.

That was exciting. I don't
know if you've been to a spin
class.

If not, imagine the worst
nightclub in the world

and fill it with exercise
bikes. That's what a spin class
is.

This spin class had a
little twist when I
arrived.

Everyone's names were
projected on the wall in a
league table

to tell you how well you
were doing in the spin
class.

Correct reaction, that
is.

Unacceptable. It was
horrifying, like something out
of "Black Mirror".

Everyone's names are up
there, projected, right?

Now, they all knew that when
they signed up to the spin
class.

They went on the
website, they put in a
username

that they knew was gonna be
projected on the wall in a
public manner.

When I put my username into
a website, I had no idea it
was going on the wall,

so I did what I normally do
when I put a username into
a website:

I used my full email
address.

But I don't like to use
my current email
address.

I thought I'd found a
loophole.

Don't want to get spam from
the organisation involved

so what I always do is I use
the email address I had when
I was 15.

So on that day everyone
had their actual names:
Ella, Jemima, Jane.

At the bottom of that league
table:
tetheredpriest69@hotmail.com.

Big year for me last year. I
went for my first ever massage
as well.

Very exciting. I thought I'd
planned the perfect Sunday.

I thought, "I'll have my
favourite dinner, then I'll
go for a massage."

So I had a full roast
chicken dinner and
immediately went for a
massage.

You're openly
laughing at my
decision there.

Where were you when it
happened?

I don't know if you
react to a roast chicken
dinner

the same way I react to a
roast chicken dinner,

but when I've had a
roast chicken dinner,

if you even look at me the
wrong way

I will fart until one of us
is dead.

So, combine that with
a situation where
you're in a small
windowless room

with a complete
stranger...

Not an ideal way to spend
an afternoon.

I thought, "I've already
paid for it. Clench it in,
waddle down there."

Met the lady giving me the
massage. She was a very
little lady.

Very small
hands.

I thought, "She does not
look like she has enough
power

"to push any gas out of
me today."

Turns out her body shape
was lying. She was like a
cage fighter.

Before we even got to the
fart issue, I had a whole
other hurdle to get over.

I was lying on my
front on the massage
table.

You know when you do that,
there's a hole in the
table.

You put your face
through. It's
comfortable.

They also put paper down on
the table in case there's any
oil spillages.

They can just screw the
paper up,

put fresh paper down for a
new person.

There is supposed to be a slit
in that paper where the hole
is

so you can put your face
through it.

I did not know what had
happened on that day

but I received slitless
paper.

I just had straight
paper over my face like
that.

I had to spend the first
five minutes of my massage

trying to lick my way
through some paper

until it was wet
enough

that I could be born into
the massage.

It was like a calf coming
into the world. It was awful.

Once I'd dealt with
that, it was the fart
issue.

I felt like I had every fart
in the world in there,
desperately trying to get out.

I clenched my buttocks,
sure. That's rule one.

But they went numb
after about ten
minutes.

Every muscle in my body was
clenched, desperately
holding them in.

I was gripping the corners of
the table. Had my eyes shut
cos I thought,

"If pressure builds up here
and it can't get out the
normal way,

"I'm just gonna start
farting out my eyes."

She noticed something was
up. She said, "Oh, you feel
very tense."

I thought, "Yeah, so should
you do quite frankly.

"One false move and I will
take your face off with my
arse."

At one point she lit a
candle. I thought, "What the
fuck are you doing?"

You can't have a naked flame
next to a walking aerosol
can.

About half an hour in, I
thought, "I'm gonna have to do
something.

"I paid for a massage.
I've never been more
stressed in my life."

But what do you do in
that situation?

All my brain was saying
was, "Siphon one off."

I thought I could just try
and release one in minuscule
amounts,

bit by bit, and just slowly
raise the level of fart in
the room

and she wouldn't even
notice.

Like in "The Great
Escape"

when they shake little bits
of dirt out their trousers

all across the prison
site.

I thought, "Come on,
Ed. You know your own
body.

"You can do a silent one
on demand."

Well, turns out I do not
know my own body.

Because yes, I farted,
and no, it was by no
means silent.

And I did it at completely the
wrong moment.

Like I say, I was lying on
my front.

She took my ankle and pulled
my lower leg towards my
upper leg.

And with the motion of that
leg,

I let
rip.

Then there was a little
pause,

where I thought to myself,
"Well, maybe she didn't
hear that."

But guess what? She
definitely heard it.

She was in the lower
quadrant. I'd imagine she
felt it.

Her hair probably blew
back like a Beyoncé video.

But what's she gonna do
now?

I don't know the protocol.
Is she gonna call
security?

What she chose to do was take
the same ankle again.

I thought, "Cheeky
girl. She's
experimenting."

But that's what I'd do, to
be fair, if I pulled
someone's leg and they
farted.

First thing I'd do, try
it again.

See if it happens every
time.

So I thought, "I've already
farted. She knows that's the
kind of guy I am.

"Still got loads more to get
out. Fuck it, in for a penny.
Here we go."

Then she went for the other
leg. I thought, "She's getting
complacent."

So this time I gave her
nothing,

which was much more
difficult than it should
have been.

She pulled that leg to
absolute silence.

I heard her put it
down and then go,
"Oh?"

Very
disappointed.

She said, "It's OK, you
can relax."

You can relax! That's
when I realised

I'd been so worried about
being rude by farting during
the massage

I had not taken into account
that farting during a
massage

is the ultimate
compliment to the
masseuse.

Shows they have helped you
reach a level of
relaxation

where you don't mind parping
in front of a stranger.

Once I'd realised
that,

everywhere she touched me I
gave her a little compliment.

She knew what was going
on.

It wasn't a massage by the
end of it, she was just
milking farts out of me.

She was doing things that
definitely weren't from the
massage text book.

It was only to get farts
out.

At one point she put her
arm at the top of me

and pushed the full
length of my body down

like she was trying to get
the last bit of ketchup out
of a sachet.

This is how she
finished.

There is no way this is a
sanctioned massage therapy.

It is only from the world
of farts.

She took my hand and
pulled each one of my
fingers.

And I obliged with every crack
of the knuckle.

At the beginning of last
year me and three other
comedians

went on holiday to New York
City

and there was a big
snowstorm and we all got
stranded

and we couldn't get
home.

I agree, that is not a
promising start to a story.

Essentially what I'm saying to
you is that my holiday was
extended

because it became too
magical. That's what
happened.

So I didn't think it
was much of a story

but it actually made
the BBC News
website.

The fact that me and three
others were stranded in New
York City

made the BBC News
website.

"Four comedians
stranded in New York
City."

And I'd imagine people
thought,

"Ooh, four comedians
stranded in New York on the
BBC News website.

"I'd imagine we've heard
of all of these
comedians."

No, no, no, no,
no.

Please adjust your
expectations, dear reader,

because three quarters of
that article was dedicated to
explaining

who the fuck each one of us
was.

Everyone got their own
little paragraph.

I'll be honest, that
stung initially,

but then just quite excited
to get a little bit of
press from the BBC.

Your own little description.
You can take that
description,

pop it on a poster, sell
some tickets. Lovely.

So, what do you want from
the BBC News website?

"Funny comedian." I'd have
taken that, popped it on a
poster. Lovely stuff.

"Humorous man." That is
how low my bar is

when it comes to press
quotes.

Here's what they actually
went with:

"Diabetic
comedian."

Diabetic
comedian!

Now, this annoyed me for a
number of fucking reasons.

Firstly, yes, it's
technically true. He'd done
some research.

I am Type 1 diabetic, I am a
comedian. Put those two
thing together,

I can sort of see how he
arrived at "diabetic comedian".

But I'm here to let you
know tonight,

diabetic comedy is not a
thing.

That is not a genre of
humour that exists.

How many of you read about
me on the BBC News website

and that's why you've
come to the show tonight?

"Oh, look, Cheryl, a
diabetic comedian.

"I've never heard of such a
thing. It sounds very
ground-breaking.

"Your mother's diabetic,
isn't she? Get her a ticket
as well.

"I wonder what he's gonna
do. What is diabetic comedy?
Puzzling.

"Is he gonna test his blood
sugar level and we can all
guess what it is?

"Maybe he's gonna do some
high-octane death-charm
style humour."

Or, as it's known in the
world of diabetes,

"no jam for me thank you
very much" humour.

"Guys, you know when you're
doing your insulin,

"you gotta rotate the
injection sites

"cos if you don't, the area
becomes lumpy and hard.

"Well, I just fucking
injected into my dick."

It's impossible to do
diabetic comedy.

Mainly because people
don't understand enough
about diabetes

for me to do successful
observational humour about
it.

It would only work if
it was a room full of
diabetics

which it never
is.

There's normally no
diabetics or one diabetic.

Give me a cheer if
you're diabetic.

Hurray. -
There he is.

- What's your name, my
friend? - Richard.

Richard. Nice to meet
you. Type 1, Type 2?

- Type 1. - Good, OK. Any
Type 2s in?

Good. Doesn't
count.

There's a lot of beef
between the two
communities.

It has to be beef because
that has no impact on
blood sugar level.

If I came out here and did
an hour and a bit of
diabetic comedy

it would be pure silence from
you and Richard losing his
mind at the back.

Which would be worth
it once or twice.

Because people get
confused.

It's my life so I think
it's a simple condition
to understand

but people get confused in
day to day.

I brought some of the
equipment that I use with me.

This is my insulin
pen.

This is how I get the
insulin into my system.

The way this works is I screw
a little needle onto the end
of there,

there's a cartridge of
insulin in there,

I dial up how much I
want

and then I just stick it in
wherever, like a dirty
little medicine slut.

Oh, Richard, by the way, I'm on
Humalog. What do you use?

Actrapid.
- Oh,
cool.

So, that's the level of
banter.

That's the diabetic
comedy banter out the
way.

I don't think I've heard of
Actrapid before, Richard.

It's
brilliant.

It's
brilliant.

Good advice. Thank
you, Richard.

Humalog takes 20 minutes
to really kick off and
get going.

- What about
Actrapid? - About
four seconds.

Four
seconds.

That's pretty
rapid.

Actrapid, hang around after
the show and we'll have a
chat.

Well, I use Humalog because I
live in the Dark Ages.

Might as well suck
it out of a fucking
pig.

I regularly just do this in
public but it confuses people
who see it.

I did it in London the
other day.

A woman shepherded her
child away from me

like I'm some sort of
horrible drugs man.

Where did she think I'd
come from to take heroin
with this?

The fucking future? Look at
it.

Also, don't move your
child away from me

as if I'm suddenly gonna go,
"Ooh, some for the little
one.

"Share and share alike. It is
a lesson he must learn."

You're probably thinking,
"That's how you do your
insulin.

"How do you test your
blood sugar?" Good
question.

I do that with this which
is called an Accu-Chek
mobile.

Richard, what do you
use?

He's dead. That can
occur.

Sometimes that can happen.
That's how quickly we can
slip away.

Sometimes Actrapid is too
rapid.

There's not enough
time

to alter your
mistakes.

RIP, Richard.
#PrayforRichard.

So, here's how this one
works. Here's how you test
your blood with this.

I put my finger
there, press this
button,

a little spike shoots in and
out like a James Bond shoe.

It pierces my finger, I get
the blood on the end of it.

Put it in the machine,
calculates my blood glucose
level reading.

I look at the screen
and I act
accordingly.

Again, regularly do this
in public and it confuses
people.

I did it in a café the other
day at a big communal table.

A man who I do not know
leaned over to me and
said,

"Ooh, is that your
phone?"

What contract did he
think I was on

that it demanded a
blood sacrifice?

Even people that I sort of
know, a friend of a friend saw
me do all of that,

looked baffled for 20
minutes, then pointed at this
and said,

"Been meaning to
ask, is that your
vape?"

My fucking
vape?

You've seen me put blood in
it, you maniac.

I know they get
whacky with the
flavours

but I think haemoglobin
might be taking it a step
too far.

Also, don't ask me if
something's my vape,

because the basic translation
of that sentence is, "Are you
a cunt?"

And yes, there are some
people noticeably not
clapping there.

And I'm sorry if there are
any vapists in here.

I'm not sorry for what I just
said, I'm sorry that tonight
you had to find out

that you're not as
cool as you think you
are.

You're producing too much
smoke.

The volumes are
hilarious.

Great billowing clouds of
the stuff.

It's like you're trying to
hide behind a sheep, you bunch
of idiots.

And it smells too nice to
be cool.

Cigarettes are cool
because they smell
bad.

You smell tobacco, you're
like, "That is disgusting

"They don't give a
shit about their body.

"They are a badass
legend."

James Dean wouldn't have
been the same if he'd ridden
off,

leaving a cloud of waffles
and maple syrup behind
him.

I hope I'm not getting too
angry about the Type 1 diabetes
stuff.

If you don't know
about diabetes, it's
not your fault.

I think it gets
misrepresented in the media
all of the time,

especially in things
like films or
dramas.

Quite often a scriptwriter
will put in a Type 1
diabetic character

for a bit of peril, a
bit of medical peril,

and then do no further
research into the condition
they're writing about.

My favourite example
is a '90s action
film

starring Nicholas
Cage called Con Air.

Solid '90s action
fayre,

unless you're watching
it from a Type 1
diabetic perspective.

There is absolutely no reason
you should have ever done
that before.

So, there's a Type 1
diabetic character in that
film.

About halfway through that
film he goes sweaty, shaky and
pale,

all the classic signs of a
low blood sugar level.

He then asks for his
insulin which is injected
into him.

He's then fine and runs round
shooting people for the rest
of the film.

Listen to that. A couple of
you are laughing.

The rest of you are just
sat there going, "What's
wrong with that?

"He's diabetic and he's
feeling ill, give him his
insulin.

"It works for everything.
It's like Calpol for
those guys."

No. I've already told
you what insulin does.

Insulin reduces blood
sugar level.

If you give insulin to a man
with an already low blood
sugar level,

you will kill that
man.

And this is why my
girlfriend won't watch films
with me anymore.

I made her pause Charlie
And The Chocolate
Factory

to calculate how much insulin
I'd need to take a swim in the
chocolate river.

If it's Actrapid, you could
just sniff it and it'd be all
right.

I'm getting more angry
about the Actrapid
thing.

My girlfriend said, "Just
relax. It's supposed to be a
fun film."

She's probably right. Way
more fun than an action
film.

To jab someone
with a big
syringe,

then they pop up and
start blowing suckers
away again

rather than the
scientifically accurate
version

which would be to sit
the character up

and feed him Jelly
Babies for 15 minutes.

And that, by the way, is the
scientifically accurate
version.

I've not just picked the most
whimsical sweet I can think
of.

The NHS recommends Jelly
Babies to Type 1 diabetics

to get their blood sugar
level up quickly in an
emergency.

Jelly Babies. That is fine when
you are diagnosed, aged 11.

Since then they have offered
me no alternative.

I am a fully grown man who
carries round a bag of Jelly
Babies

24 fucking
7.

Do you not understand? It's
the creepiest sweet a man can
have.

A grown man who's got any bag
of sweets on him at all times

gives off a certain
vibe, doesn't it?

But when the sweet in
question is a little naked
baby...

When I'm carrying those, I
feel like I should put myself
on a register.

I'm living this nightmare
that one day I'll be
walking past a school

and accidentally trip over and
spill Jelly Babies all over
the floor.

Parents are
panicking, calling
the police.

I'm scrabbling around,
going, "No, please, you
don't understand.

"I have an
illness."

Someone sat down there
tried to start a round
of applause

and it didn't look like
you were gonna go with
it.

She fucking wouldn't let go
of that.

She was like, "No, we clap
now."

I get to this part of the show
and I can see you all sat
there going,

"We're enjoying it, Ed,
but...

"is the rest of the
show gonna be about
diabetes?

"It's just, you've squeezed
quite a lot of stuff out of
that already.

"You've really melted
the old pancreas
dry."

Fair enough. I care about
other stuff as well.

I've just started giving to
this charity that I'm really
excited about.

It's a charity that
sponsors puppies to become
guide dogs.

Some "aah"s there and the rest
of you: heartless.

It's a good charity. It's a
cause that's quite close to my
heart.

When I say it's a cause
that's close to my
heart,

I'm ashamed to admit that the
cause to which I am referring
is cute dogs.

That is why I give
money to that charity.

I am only interested in one
end of the lead in that
situation.

Don't you fucking judge
me.

The charity know what's
bringing in the money.

They don't put the blind
people on the leaflets.

I would give money to a cute
dog to do anything.

Emotional support animal for
a war criminal will get my £7
a month.

Corgis for Mugabe?
Sign me the fuck
up.

Look, of course I care about
the cause of the blind.

All I'm saying is, if
they were led around by
snakes,

I would not give that
charity any money.

Apart from once to
see that happen.

It wouldn't work.
I've thought about
it.

I've thought about it so
much.

You can't put a snake on a
lead. A snake is a lead.

Look, it's a good
charity. It does really
good work.

And it's a cool charity cos
you get to pick the dog that
you give to.

You go on the website and
they've got pictures of all
the dogs

and you scroll through and
you go, "Yes, that's my kind
of dog.

"Yes, please, that is my type
of dog."

You don't want to give
money

and they disperse it
evenly amongst all the
dogs.

What if my money
goes to a shit dog?

You scroll through and you
go, "Yes, please, my type of
dog.

"That
dog."

I give money to a children's
charity too. That is not how
that one works.

In the world of kids'
charities the catalogue system
is frowned upon.

I'll show you. I've got a
picture of the dog that I
donate to.

Her name's Berry. Get ready
for this. She's so sweet.

This is a picture of
Berry. You're in for such
a treat.

- Ladies and gentlemen,
meet Berry. - Aaah.

Right?

As soon as I saw Berry, I
was like, "Oh, she is so
sweet."

And if she wasn't sweet
enough, they put her among
Christmas presents.

It warms my heart.
It fills it with
joy.

So, I set up the direct
debit.

The agreement was made. First
payment left the account.

One week later I got my
first update as to how Berry
was getting along.

The direct debit has been
set up. The agreement has
been made.

The first payment has left
the account.

Ladies and gentlemen, one
week later, according to the
charity,

this is what Berry looks
like now.

Some of the more
observant amongst you...

may have noticed a
few key differences.

This is the dog I gave my
money to, not this piece of
shit.

What the fuck is up with
this? I hate this dog.

It's a horrible mangy old
toilet dog!

This dog belongs to a
witch. I hate it.

"Oh...
oh..."

No, I hope this dog
dies.

I don't like
it.

I don't like this
dog.

I don't like it.
They've ripped me
off.

They know what they've
done. They've conned me.

Of course they have. It's the
same dog, by the way.

It's just not at the same
time.

You can tell it's the same
dog from her fucking lying
eyes.

They made me feel
shallow. I feel awful
about this.

They fucking dogfished
me, that's what's
happened.

That is not Berry now, is it?
That is Berry in
approximately 1997.

One of those
presents is a
brand-new copy

of Limp Bizkit's debut
album.

They've made me feel so
shallow.

I feel like I've gone into
a phone box in the '90s

and seen that on the wall and
gone, "Mm, hot XXS puppy
action.

"Yes,
please."

Called the number and gone
to the flat and that's
what's fucking waiting for
me.

I know I'm making it sound
like I want to fuck the
dog.

That was not my
intention.

I did not want to fuck the dog,
certainly not looking like
that.

Now, that,
well...

No.

The charity know they've
got you.

They know you can't call up
when you get that through
the post

and go, "Excuse me, I'd
like to discuss the dog
that I'm sponsoring.

"This dog was not as fit
as I..." Not fit.

"This
dog..."

"This dog was not as...
Bye."

They know they've got
you.

I'm sorry. This pains
me too much.

I can't look at that
anymore.

Oh, fuck off. Fuck
off!

How was your
night?

"We watched Ed Gamble
angrily drop a picture of
a dog."

Can't look at that
anymore. Too sweet.

This annoyed me. The whole
leaflet situation annoyed
me.

They rub it in cos they know
they've got you.

"Pupdate 1". They call
it a pupdate.

Cute little pun, really rub
my face in it.

This annoyed me.
"Sponsor a
puppy."

That is not a fucking
puppy.

I'm not the blind
one in this
situation.

What really annoyed me... Look
at that slogan down there.

"Settling in. Berry's off to a
flying start."

Yes, fucking speed of
lightning. Look at that.

I don't want to body-shame
her but she has stacked it
on, hasn't she?

What's she been eating?
The blind people's
dinners?

There's a poor man in a
flat somewhere can't wait
to get his first guide
animal.

Suddenly all the
lasagne starts going
missing.

Fat dog in the
corner with garlic
breath.

"I don't
know where it's gone.

"It's a real
mystery.

"If you've got to go and
get food, I'm pretty full.

"Do you mind if we leave
it about 10 to 15 minutes?

"Oh, well, if you've got to go
now, it's a left out the front
door.

"You've got to
cross three busy A
roads

"but if you run, you'll
probably beat the cars."

Pupdate
1.

That to that, one
pupdate.

I'm terrified about what
Pupdate 2's gonna be.

At this rate just a
picture of an urn.

Turn that round cos she's
dead.

Oh,
man.

I've been in a relationship
for about eight years with
my girlfriend.

Very exciting. I'm good in
a relationship.

I was a rubbish single
man.

Awful. I never
had that
get-up-and-go

that you're supposed to
have as a single man.

I'm not a sex man. That's
what I'm trying to say.

Look, I've lost all of
you immediately.

Not a sex man,
no.

If you're confused, I said
that at a gig the other night

and a man in the back row
went, "Do you mean fuckboy?"

I don't know if that
helps, guys.

I'm not a sex man nor a
fuckboy nor nothing in
between.

But don't get me
wrong, I like it.

Woo!

Who doesn't? I like a bit
of sex. Yes, please. Oh,
yum.

I like
it.

I like it very much. I just
don't need it all of the time.

I'm not asexual,
unless that's my
grade.

I just don't need it all the
time. I don't think about it
all the time.

One good sex will get me
through winter. That's what I'm
trying to say.

And when I do do it,
I can keep it
simple.

I don't need to add all
these jazzy...

these jazzy bells and whistles
that all you pervos are
adding.

Get this. You know, some
people like doing it

with more than one
person at the same time.

And judging by your
reaction tonight, you're
all here.

Is this one swingers'
party? Is that what this
is?

You're all just gonna
start fucking in a minute.

That would be a great
prank to play on a
comedian.

Go to someone's gig and
then, like, "At 20 minutes
we all fuck."

Some people do it with
more than one person

all at the same
time.

Who is doing
that?

When I do it, it
is me alone...

Or one other person
max.

Er,
maximum.

That is
it.

That is it. I don't want
you to get the wrong
impression.

I'm a sexual being. I
have sexual feelings.

Now and again, guys... I
don't wanna get too gruesome
on you.

Now and again I have been
known to go on the internet

and look up mucky
things

to have some private
time.

It's very difficult in this
day and age to look up mucky
things,

to have private
time on the
internet,

because people can
hack into your laptop,

film what you're doing
through your laptop
camera,

and put a video of you having
mucky private time

on the
internet.

You look like you've just
found out about this.

If you need to go and throw
your laptop in the river, you
go and do that.

Or do what I do. I've
got a new system.

It's very easy to have a
video taken down from the
internet

if there's been breach
of copyright.

So whenever I
masturbate,

I just shout Coca-Cola,
Burger King,
McDonald's...

...and let their lawyers
deal with it.

I did that joke every
night at the Edinburgh
Festival.

And one night I did it, got a
laugh, and a hand went up in
the front row.

I was like, "Oh, OK.
Not normally time
for questions."

I followed the hand down and it
was attached to a 15-year-old
boy.

That is a terrible
way of describing
that.

It was his
hand.

'Twas an old man's
hand...

...sewn to the body of
a 15-year-old boy.

No, it was his
hand. He put his
hand up

to that bit about
wanking and people
filming it.

And I said... I shouldn't
have done. I said, "Yes?"

He said, "Just put tape
over your laptop
camera."

And my first thought
was, "Good idea, small
boy."

Then a look of horror
spread across his
face

when he remembered he was
sitting next to his mum.

A look of
realisation spread
across hers.

"Mm. That's where all my
tape's been going.

"I couldn't wrap any
presents last year cos he'd
wanked away all my Scotch."

I'd like to talk about my
dad now.

My dad's a good man. Odd and
intelligent, that's what I'd
say.

He's that level of
intelligence

where if he gets caught
out making a stupid
mistake,

he won't just admit to
it,

he'll try and intellectually
argue his way out of that
situation.

The best example I can give
you is when I was a lot
younger,

eight or nine, my dad took me
into a baker's.

He strode up to the lady
behind the counter and he
said,

"Hello.

"We'd like a Danish
Boog, please."

Now, that lady looked at us
like you are all looking at
me now.

Because the Danish Boog is
not a thing that exists.

She said, "Sorry, sir. I've
never heard of a Danish
Boog.

"Is it a baked
good?"

Now, I would argue that if you
hear the phrase "Is it a baked
good?"

whilst you're in a
baker's,

you should know you've
fucked up already.

But my dad ploughed on
with, if anything,
increased confidence.

He said, "The Danish
Boog."

She said, "I'm quite new
here but as far as I'm aware

"we don't sell
anything called a
Danish Boog."

My dad's getting quite angry
now. He's going, "The Danish
Boog!

"The Danish Boog!",
pointing at the chalk
board behind her.

She turned round,
looked at the
board,

turned back to us and
said,

"Do you mean the Danish
800 gram?"

Oh,
dear.

Daddy done fucked
up.

Now, I think in that
situation 99.99% of us would
immediately go,

"Of course I do.
I'm such an
idiot.

"Of course I mean the Danish
800g. I saw the 8, I thought
it was a B.

"I saw the G. It's still a
G, to be fair to me.

"I saw that 800g. That is the
bread I would like."

It's bread, by the
way, not a massive
pastry.

"The Danish 800g. That is
what I would like.

"I'm so sorry. Boog!
What an idiot."

Here's what my dad chose to
do.

She said, "Do you
mean the Danish
800g?"

And my dad said,
"No!

"I mean the Danish
Boog."

She snapped and said, "I'll
have to speak to the boss.

"I don't know what that
is."

My dad now goes all
in on the lying.

She's leaving the room.
He's going, "You'd
better.

"We're in a bit of a rush.
It's not a Saturday without
a Boog."

Watches her leave the
room.

As soon as she leaves
his field of
vision...

I will never forget
this until the day I
die.

...my dad leaned down to me
and said, "We're leaving
now."

So, this is the
man we're dealing
with.

This man recently retired.
He called me after he
retired

and he went, "Right,
I'm retiring."

I said, "Yes, Dad. You
sound very relaxed.

He said, "I'm retiring and I'm
going to buy a kitten."

I said, "Are you sure
that's a good idea,
Dad?

"You've never expressed any
interest in animal ownership in
the past,

"and the volume at which you
speak would rip a kitten's
face off.

Are you sure it's a
kitten, not a fully grown
cat?

I've been stung by
that scam before.

He said, "Well, whatever it
is,

"I've recently read an
article and apparently it's
very soothing

"when you retire to buy
a cat or a kitten.

"Anyway, it's too late.
I've paid for it now.
Bye."

Called me up three weeks
later and went, "Right, the
cat's here.

"I fucking hate
it."

I went, "Yeah. No one's
surprised by that."

But he doesn't hate that
cat. He doesn't.

He loves that cat but for
some reason he is concealing
the fact he loves it

from his friends and
family.

Presumably because he
thinks it will make him
look weak.

Here's how I know he loves
that cat. I went over there to
visit him.

He went, "Come in. Fucking
cat's in the corner.

"Hate it, hate
it."

I looked round expecting to
see this horrible cat, this
bag of bones.

Hissing
cat.

It's the most beautiful
cat I've ever seen in my
life.

This round, white, fluffy
thing. It looks like a vaper's
breath.

It's
incredible.

Fur so soft he could have
only been brushing it every
20 minutes.

So I had my suspicions
that he loved that
cat,

suspicions that were
confirmed when my sister
called a few weeks later.

She still lives at
home.

She'd seen some emails
open on my dad's computer,

emails from my dad's
account

to the vet where they're
registering the cat.

The twist being, my dad has
been emailing the vet

as the
cat.

I'm just gonna let that sink
in.

This is a man who was a
lawyer for 35 years of his
life.

He's
retired

and three weeks later
he's pretending to be his
own fucking pet.

I said to my sister, "You are
aware of what job I do?

"Why haven't you forwarded
me those emails yesterday?

"Because I am filming my
show and I want to close it
out

"by reading out some of my
father's emails verbatim."

So she did and I...
Well...

Right. This first email is
from a lady called Karen.

She works in the vet's
office.

Now, I read this email out
for a very specific
reason.

It will become clear very
quickly why I am reading
this out.

"Mr Gamble, thank you for
registering Matatabi with
our surgery."

Yup, I'll explain
that.

My dad has called his
cat Matatabi.

When I said, "Why have
you done this?",

he said, "Well, it's
Japanese for silver birch."

So, that explains that,
doesn't it?

He's shit at naming
things.

He was allowed to pick my
middle name and my sister's,

a privilege that was
surprisingly revoked

by the time it got to our
younger brother.

I tell everyone my full
name is Edward Gamble. Not
technically true.

Technically, my full name
is Edward Stephenson
Gamble.

That is not a middle
name, that is a last
name.

Edward Stephenson Gamble
makes me sound like a whacky
Victorian inventor.

And it's with a PH, the
cunts' way.

Such a long middle name,
we couldn't even afford
the letters.

And my sister got it way
worse.

She's younger than me. I went
to visit her the day she was
born.

This tiny little
baby in my stepmum's
arms.

So excited to meet my
little sister, I said, "Oh,
who's this?"

My stepmum says, "This is
Catherine, Catherine
Gamble."

I was like, "What a lovely
name.

"Lovely beautiful simple
name for a little tiny
beautiful baby."

From the corner of the
room you just hear, "Er...

"That's not her full
name."

I said, "What have you
done, you maniac?"

He said, "Her
full name...

"is
Catherine...

"Montgomery
Gamble."

"No, no,
no.

"No. Why?
Why?

"Is it too late? Can
we change it? Why?

"That's the main
question. Why have you
done this?

"Why?" He started
to panic.

He'd not been challenged on
this before. He started to lie
about why he'd done it.

I knew he was lying. I
recognised his eyes from the
bakery.

"Well, it's just a nice
name.

"Lovely, lovely name. Lovely
ring to it, actually."

I was like, "That is not why
you did it. Not even you, you
fucking nutter,

"would think that Montgomery
is a nice name for a tiny
baby girl."

He's going, "That's
why. Move on. Next
topic of conversation."

I was like, "That's not
why. I'm gonna find out
why."

And it didn't take long
because on the bookshelf
behind him

was a big book that was
a biography

of WWI and WWII general
Field Marshal
Montgomery.

I said, "Please do not tell
me you have named my baby
sister

"after Field
Marshal
Montgomery."

And he immediately snapped
and went, "He was a war
hero."

"Thank you for
registering Matatabi with
our surgery.

"As discussed, here is a list
of vaccinations

"and recommended
specialised foods for cats
of Matatabi's age.

"Please book an appointment
at your earliest
convenience.

"Karen." Lovely stuff from
Karen there.

If you were listening
closely,

you will have worked out
that at no point in the
email

was there any suggestion
of roleplay.

Bearing that in
mind,

here is the first
response from my dad's
account.

It's the first response.
He gives Karen no warm-up
into this shit.

"Hey, Karen, I hope you
don't mind speaking directly
to the patient."

I can hear some of you
making embarrassed
noises.

This is not your fucking
dad, excuse me.

Any idea how I felt the
first time I read this?

My butthole is in my
throat for forever more.

"I hope you don't mind
speaking directly to the
patient.

"Thank you for your response.
I will pass it on to Mr
Gamble

"so he can look over
it."

That annoyed me,
massively,

the idea that the cat
would call him Mr
Gamble.

It's arrogant, that's what
it is.

"Will see when I'm
free in my
schedule..."

Cat's got a
schedule.

"...and I'll get back to
you ASAP.

"From
Matatabi."

My dad's got himself into a
tricky situation here.

Not only is he
pretending to be his own
cat,

he has also said that as the
cat he will speak to his human
owner,

find out when he's
free for an injection,

and then get back to the
vet with a follow-up email.

So now my dad's got to work
out

how long he thinks it would
take a cat to do all of those
things

so he knows what gap to
leave before email two.

My dad's a very exact
man.

He will have done a
dry run-through of
that situation.

He'd have gone, "Right,
OK, email one sent.

"We're on the clock. Here we
go. What's happening?

"I'm a cat, aren't I? I'm
a cat."

"Going off to find my human
owner, find out when I'm
free for an injection.

"Here we go. We're
on the clock.

"Mr
Gamble?

"Mr
Gamble?

"Is he in the
kitchen?

"No."

It's a slightly bigger
stage than I'm used to.

"Is he in the
bathroom?"

"No."

I'm all right, by the
way.

You're all sat there
going,

"Is this what low blood
sugar looks like? We should
have been listening earlier.

"I think we shove a Jelly Baby
up his dick. I can't
remember."

A lot of comedians would
listen to the reaction and cut
the routine short.

What I'm gonna do is stretch
it out way beyond its natural
shelf life.

"Is he in
the...

"...second
bedroom?"

Oh, by the way, my dad's got
a massive house.

"No."

"Is he in the servants'
quarter?

"Oh, no. He would never
go down there."

"Is he in the billiards
room?"

My dad lives in the
Cluedo house. You know
the Cluedo house?

"Is he in the bit in the
middle

"where they put the envelope
telling you who did the
murder?

"The police should just
go straight there,
shouldn't they?"

The cat does
observational material as
well.

"What's with
Cluedo?

"He is in the
corridor.

"Hello, Mr
Gamble."

"Well, hello,
Matatabi." I'm Mr
Gamble again now.

"So, that was about five
minutes. Now it will take
me 10 to 15 minutes

"to truly come to terms with
the fact that my cat can now
speak English.

"Once I have adjusted my
world view, I will converse
with the cat thusly.

"Why, hello,
Matatabi."

"And hello to you, Mr
Gamble.

"And yes, my voice is
the same as yours."

I mean, normally the voice
is altered for the cat, but
that's gone.

"And I know my name's
Japanese but I'm not fucking
touching that.

"Mr
Gamble...

"Mr
Gamble...

"It's me,
Mario.

"When am I free for
my injection?

"Any next week
apart from Tuesday

"cos that's my Gambino
day.

"Oh, no, but Mr
Gamble..."

"Why, thank you, Matatabi.
Slightly longer monologue
than usual.

"I'll just peruse your
schedule.

"It would appear on the 15th
at 11:00am you're free for an
injection, Matatabi."

"Why, thank you, Mr
Gamble. Now, here's the
important question.

"Do you think I, as a cat,
should send another email to
the vet

"or do you think you, as
a human. should take
over?

"Bearing in mind, Mr
Gamble, that if I, as a
cat, send another email,

"you are going to look
fucking insane."

"Go ahead,
Matatabi.

"Right. I'm a cat, I'm a
cat.

"Back to the
computer. Still on
the clock.

"It's about 22 minutes
now. Time for email two."

"Karen, hello and,
indeed, miaow.

"I have spoken to my
owner

"and he mentioned that the
15th at 11:00am looks good for
my injections.

"From
Matatabi."

This is my favourite
bit of the whole
exchange.

This is the response from
Karen after those two emails.

"Mr Gamble, the 15th at
11:00am is booked.

"Karen."

Go,
Karen.

Karen has got no
time for my dad's
shit.

Karen has read all of that
in the two emails before
and gone,

"I'm not dealing with
this.

"This is a man in his 60s
having a post-retirement
psychotic meltdown.

"I'm not qualified to deal
with this."

Still scary for Karen,
though.

Karen doesn't know what's
gonna come through the door on
the 15th at 11:00am.

The entire
correspondence has been
over email.

At this point, Karen
doesn't know that there
even is a cat.

It could just be my dad
dressed as a cat.

She's sat there, just getting
on with her work.

11 o'clock, door smashes
open.

"Hello!"

It's my dad, full Mr
Mephistopheles outfit.

"Karen.

"I'm looking for
Karen."

She's sat there
going, "Oh, for
fuck's sake.

"Just deal with it, Karen.
He'll go in a bit. Just
roll with it."

"Yes, hello. Matatabi, isn't
it? Matatabi."

"Actually, Karen, it appears
my reputation has preceded
me.

"OK, well, we've got your
records here. Matatabi
Gamble, isn't it?"

"Well, Karen, actually my
full name is Matatabi Winston
Churchill Gamble.

"He was a war
hero."

He still sends the emails as
the cat, you'll be happy to
know.

Still sends the emails as
the cat,

but he doesn't mention that
when he takes the cat into
the vet.

I love that because he's not
very sociable

so he will just take the cat
in and go, "Right, there's the
cat,"

and then pick the cat up and
go, "Thank you," and leave.

And then they get all these
emails from the cat.

It's like the cat is this
verbose figure in charge
of all the admin.

He's taken it upon himself to
hire a weird silent butler.

I hope he keeps it up. I hope
he keeps sending those emails
as the cat.

And I hope that for a very
specific reason.

If he keeps sending emails
as the cat, in a few years
the inevitable will happen

and my dad will have to
send a very dark email.

In a few years' time, if he
still sends the emails as the
cat,

my dad will have to email
the vet as the cat

to arrange his own
death.

"Well, Karen, I think my
time has come.

"Time for Matatabi to shuffle
off this mortal coil.

"Goodbye and, indeed,
miaow."

Guys...

For a long time, that is
where that show ended

and I thought, "I'm filming
the show. I can't end the show
on a cat dying,

"especially when I've
talked about kicking a
guide dog earlier."

That's not the sort of rep
that I want.

So I thought, "I'm gonna
need a different end to the
show."

I thought, "How am I gonna end
the show?" I was panicking.

And someone said to me, "Do
what you want. It's your
show.

"Fulfil a dream. Do
whatever you want.

"It's your time. You do
whatever you please."

When I realised
that,

there was only ever gonna be
one way that I could end this
show.

Hit the
music.

So, this is a
bassoon.

Any
requests?

- "Three Blind
Mice". - Thank you.

That could've
backfired.

I mean, it's the weirdest
moment in my life.

And I know there's people
in here who really need a
piss right now.

What a funny reason to wet
yourself as an adult.

"Yes, darling, I've wet
myself,

"because a man hadn't
practised his bassoon
properly."

Ladies and gentlemen,
thank you very much.

Thank you so
much. Good night.