Laugh it up

There is a question that has preoccupied Erica and me for a long time now. Well, when I say "a long time", really, probably only about two years. And when I say "preoccupied", really I mean that we think about it occasionally. And when I say "we", I really mean me.

So the question? If you absolutely had to... which of the Chuckle Brothers would you shag?

Erica's (genius) answer to this was, "the one on the left". But I think that only works with Ant and Dec. I think the Chuckle Brothers are a bit more mobile, with all that "to me, to you" malarkey.

Still, looking again at the photo of Paul and Barry Chuckle, I've got a definitive answer (finally!). According to Wikipedia, "There is a lesser known Chuckle, called Ron ". Now, if the genes are anything to go by, I probably shouldn't get my hopes up, but let's face it, could it really be worse than the original options?

So, next time someone asks me, "Which Chuckle Brother would you shag?" (and they will), I have my answer prepared.

Ron Chuckle. Bring it on.

Spark(ie)s flying

1.30 arrived yesterday. I was pissed off with the electrician. Not only had he rescheduled on me, he was now 30 minutes late on his own estimate. I called again. Laura is not a girl who gets stood up without a fight.

"Hello, can I speak to Liam please?" I asked.

"Liam can't get to his phone at the moment," said the guy at the other end. This was clearly bollocks because I'd called Liam's mobile.

"Well, I was hoping someone could tell me what was going on. Liam promised he'd be here at ten, then promised again that he'd be here at one. And now it's half past one and I'd just like to know where he is."

"He's been in an accident."

"Oh," said I. It seemed like an appropriate response.

"He's had an accident, so he can't come today." said Liam's friend. Or maybe his dad. I don't know. It didn't seem the right moment to ask for a clarification of their relationship.

"Is he OK?" I asked.

"Not really, no. We're all at the hospital. He's broken his leg."

"Oh dear. I hope he gets better soon. Bye."

I broke the electrician. That's got to be expensive.

Wooden performance

The electrician was supposed to be arriving at 10. I dragged myself out of bed at nine - on a Sunday. At 10.24 there was no electrician. I called him. Apparently he was running a couple of hours late. I was a bit arsey with him. He pretended not to hear. He said he'd be here at 1 p.m. I am not sure how 10 a.m. plus two hours equals 1 p.m., but I will be calculating his pay in much the same way.

So, faced with a free morning and unusual Sunday awakedness, I headed down Cheshire Street to have a gander at the boutiques there. Cheshire Street is an odd place. On the north side of the street, there are market stalls, ranging from the usuals (toiletries, hardware etc.), to some really odd people selling broken Action Men and very old stereo systems, and a copy of Muriel's Wedding. And then, literally two metres away, on the opposite side of the street, expensive boutiques sell tiny blocks of organic chocolate for over £5.

Anyway, one of my favourite shops in London is on Cheshire Street. It's called Comfort Station, and Erica and I came across it at Spitalfields Market a few years ago. Here is their website: http://www.comfortstation.co.uk. I chuckled a lot over their "Feed me cake" necklace and nearly got it for Erica, but it was £72 and I don't like Erica that much.

One shop I went into had a bench for sale. Two guys stopped in front of it. "It's Judi Dench," one of them said. I looked at the bench, wondering if perhaps Dame Judi had released a line of garden furniture. It said nothing about her on the sign. It told me it was made from renewable forests and was designed to be in harmony with both nature and her aesthetics. It said nothing about actresses. "Told you," said the guy. "It's Judi Dench." It wasn't. It was a wooden bench.

Do we think this is a new type of rhyming slang? Either that or the celebrated actress was behind me, buying overpriced chocolate in E2.

Punch-Line

The small child was grinning at me. A big beaming smile. This was the London Underground's Central Line, where it is forbidden to make eye contact, let alone smile. I looked away and a few moments later looked back; the child was still gurning at me.

My attention was called away from the situation briefly by my iPod inexplicably deciding to play the theme tune from Dogtanian. I don't want to talk about it.

Hastily removing my earbuds, and studiously ignoring the grimacing kid, I heard it say to its female parental unit, "Mummy, I'm trying to make people laugh. Kerpow! Imagine your head exploding! Imagine falling over! I'm trying to make people laugh."

Not so easy, is it kid? Leave it to the professionals.

Little fucker succeeded though. Whilst my humourless, stoic stoneyface would not be amused, the patronising fat woman next to me simpered, gigglingly.

I wouldn't mind, but the five year-old's just been offered a deal with Channel 4. Still, that's one fewer programme for Jimmy Carr to present.

Something wicked this way comes

Well, all is good here, thanks for asking. It has been a busy and productive few days at work, and - excitingly - today is a much-coveted day of annual leave. To non-work people, that is holiday. To Americans, that is vacation. To French people, it's a strike. Sorry, that was inappropriate.

So today, instead of pushing old ladies out of the way so I can get onto the number 8, forcing down capuccinos to stay awake, and ploughing through emails, I got up at about 9.30, spent the morning in the park with a friend and his dog, forced down a few cappucinios (some things never change) and now I have the whole afternoon to myself. Bliss.

I do have to say that the last few days have been Very Good Indeed. This usually happens just before some sort of nuclear attack / terrorist strike / outbreak of chicken flu. Don't say I didn't warn you.

Capital idea

London has let me down. Shame on you, London. Bus journey to work this morning: uneventful. Bus journey home from work this evening: uneventful. Liverpool Street Station at lunchtime: diasppointingly nutter-free. Corner shop defunct of any mad old ladies.

London, you disappoint me.

So I have booked a week's holiday to New York! Whoopee! Very, very excited, as I did have a bit of an affair with New York about four years ago - completely fell in love with the place in a way that only London makes me feel... normally.

London, the challenge has been set. Win me over now... or lose me forever.

(Yes, aware I'm talking bollocks. Slow news day.)

Smashing similes

My home is bedecked with flowers. It is bestrewn. It is befestooned. Shakespeare made up loads of words, so I can too if I want. First recorded use of the word "elbow". Shakespeare, that is, not me.

I have tulips. I have daffodils. OK, that is all of the flowers I have, but they are lovelier than Hugh Grant covered in whipped cream. Well, lovely in a different way. Try again. They are lovelier than a really cute kitten, wearing a knitted pink jacket. Kind of.

They're good anyway.

Bob the Builder

Mr Nunn has been visiting this weekend. Whenever Mr Nunn visits, I like to imprison him in the flat, and make him do all the odd jobs I can't do / can't be arsed to do by myself. Mr Nunn is a good worker. This weekend he:

• Drove me to Ikea
• Carried a bookshelf upstairs and put it together for me
• Stopped my sofa bed from squeaking
• Bought me flowers from Columbia Road flower market, chocolate and a new shower radio
• Did the washing up

Am thinking that he is quite good and I could possibly put him to work on a more permanent basis. This might mean that I needn't pay a cleaner. In fact, Mr Nunn is pretty cheap to run - a danish pastry and a few cups of tea saw him through most of the weekend. Mr Nunn never gets to see London when he visits me. Instead, he gets to roam freely round my one-bedroomed flat, like a caged tiger. I occasionally let him out so that he can buy me stuff.

I could even start hiring him out. He hasn't heard about any of this yet. Better not tell him. I think it's a smashing business idea though, in this modern age of single-parent families: rent-a-dad.

I did swears

Tiring couple of days. Been at a work conference (well, technically two work conferences), and there were so many genuinely comedy moments, but unfortunately, owing to professionalism (yawn), it's really better that I keep them to myself.

Even though one of them is so hilarious that I'm practically having to sit on my fingers to prevent myself from typing it.

Today I had to present to a conference room of about 250 people. "But Laura," you might say, "you've done this before. It's like a large comedy audience. This time you don't even have to make them laugh. Why would you worry?" Well, when I'm doing a comedy gig, it doesn't matter too much if I accuse the guy in the front row of being a cunt. Owing to some old, stuffy rules on etiquette, apparently that's not the "done thing" at a corporate banking conference. Some people are so picky.

Luckily, that particular eventuality didn't occur, though I think I might have said "git". Is "git" rude? I don't know. If I have a P45 on Monday, we should have a definitive answer.

And why, why would I say "git" in a work presentation? Oh well, better than "flange" or "moist", I suppose. Still, there's always next year.

Plans for the weekend mostly include unconsciousness.

Bags of confidence

Anyone who says I've eaten seven bags of cheesy Wotsits in five days is lying. Even if you go through my rubbish and prove there are seven empty Wotsits bags in there, it doesn't mean I've eaten them. They could have been eaten by a cheese-loving friend, or maybe I just threw them from my window, like orange confetti for my downstairs neighbour.

So don't start with all these accusations, OK?

Three things (nearly)

I have three things to say today.

THING ONE: Last night's gig went not-too-badly, thanks for asking. I still think Stratford is a bit dodgy (and I'm not at all a snob - as you know, I'm a Bethnal Green girl). Still, Stratford has an air of menace where sometimes the threat of dying on stage feels like it might literally be the case that you could offend the wrong person and die on stage.

THING TWO: There was an interesting nutter on the Number 8 this morning. He wanted to know if the bus went to Victoria, to the passport office. Now I thought the passport office was in St James' Park, but my geography is rubbish, so I kept my mouth shut. He kept asking his question though, until someone told him it did go where he needed it to. He then said, "How far is it from the bus stop?" The helpful person told him it was about ten minutes' walk. The nutter asked, "Ten minutes' walk after I get off the bus?" No, moron, ten minutes of walking whilst you're still on the bus. He then launched into a tirade about how this country was doing his head in and he had to get away. I was pleased at the prospect of him emigrating, but wasn't sure that the ID he'd brought with him (apparently a hat and a sandwich) would be enough to secure his application.

THING THREE: Actually this shows me in too bad a light, so I've changed my mind. Just two things today. Sorry for any inconvenience.

If you're happy and you know it...

Tonight I am off to Stratford for a gig.

Last time I was there I got happy slapped. Twice. Don't ask. And, even more upsettingly, that was the high point of the gig.

Wish me luck.

Making light work

How many blonde comics does it take to change a lightbulb? Well, three lightbulbs in my case. And the answer, in case you're wondering, is I have no idea because I haven't achieved the goal yet.

Lightbulb No 1: The Bathroom. Lightbulb type: large reflector bulb, screw fitting. ACHIEVED! Time taken: 20 seconds.

Lightbulb No 2: The Bedroom. Lightbulb type: large spotlight, screw fitting. FAILED! No suitable lightbulbs in lightbulb drawer. Trip to Sainsbury's resulted only in me buying the wrong type of lightbulb. Inertia prevented me from going to the corner shop to buy more.

Lightbulb No 3: The Hallway. Also known as THE NEMESIS. Lightbulb type: small globe bulb, bayonet fitting. I have always detested this fitting. I won't go into mind-numbing detail, but this lightbulb has never yet been changed without much swearing and/or injury. The light fitting claims it takes either screw or bayonet fittings. Actually, it takes neither. It is a big bastard. I bought two more (wrong) types of bulb in Sainsbury's. I think I broke the fitting.

My friend Cookie swears that changing a light fitting is dead easy. She came round a couple of years ago to change one in my living room - apparently a half-hour job. She was still here twelve hours later, along with the emergency electrician, and my entire electrical supply was fused.

The oddball at the traffic lights near Sainsbury's was there again today. This time he didn't seem to want to take my photo, but was holding up three fingers to motorists as they went past. Perhaps he's telling us how much a photo costs. I don't know. I was too worried about my lightbulbs to think properly.

Tube tales

It has been a fun-filled few days at Laura's. Off to the theatre last night to see "The Man of Mode" at the National, with my friend Elinor. Elinor surprised me by not falling asleep during this particular production, but I have high hopes for the next thing that we see together. I enjoyed the evening; it wasn't a play with which I was familiar, but there were a few nicely-staged bits and bobs. Hmm, not sure I'm going to get any awards for theatre criticism.

Today I went for lunch with Katy Who Smells of Wee. On my way there, I was standing on the tube and overheard three girls talking. Now, I know I'm getting older, and am generally out of touch with teenagers, but I would swear these girls were only about 14. I suppose, at a real push they could have been 16. But I doubt it. Anyway, these attractive and stylishly-dressed girls (who weren't chav - just normal, fairly middle-class sounding kids) were having the most sexually frank discussion I think I've ever heard. All of them were talking about their boyfriends, and the various sexual positions they prefer. And - as girls do - (sorry guys) taking the piss out of the guys' sexual techniques (including one of their boyfriends who apparently tucks his genatalia between his legs and says, "Hey, I'm a girl". As I say, I'm out of touch with teenagers today, but I would consider questioning if this is entirely normal...).

I couldn't help thinking that this situation was most men's sexual fantasy - eavesdropping on three very attractive, very young girls talking about sex. One of the girls even admitted to being a virgin. And they were on the tube. Now, I'm not a 53 year-old male pervert, but if I was (and I'm not, just to reiterate), then I'm thinking there could be a porn film in this.

Yesterday's top Google search leading to the Plog: "Teri Hatcher taking it up the arse". Obviously.

FAQs

I know I'm a bit obsessed with Google Analytics. But it really is fab. And over the last few days, the site has been accessed several times by people googling "Is Laura a good shag?"

Yes.

Hope that clears things up.

(Sorry, Dad)

Hughie, Drewie and Laurie-looie

I am in a quandary. A big quandary. So big it might even be a quintary. That was lame. Sorry.

Here is my quandary. I am a big Hugh Grant fan. Anyone who knows me knows that one day Hugh and I will be married. To date my closest encounter with Hugh Grant is that Jemima Khan was at my graduation ceremony and graduated in my class. This was several years though before she met Hugh Grant, so I'm not really sure that this counts. Anyway, I love Hugh Grant. That is all you need to know.

But as much as I love Hugh Grant, I loathe and detest Drew Barrymore. For many years I have had the cunning plan of attacking Drew Barrymore's pudgy enormous face with a cheese grater. (If this ever happens to Drew Barrymore, it wasn't me, OK?) I cannot bear to watch anything she is in. I think the phobia started at Never Been Kissed, but let's face it, she was fucking annoying in E.T. too.

So now my future husband, Hughie, and my arch-nemesis, Drewie, are now in a new romantic comedy together. I don't know if I can bring myself to watch Hughie's luscious lips touch Drew Barrymore's bulging, repulsive gob.

Any advice would be welcome.

Back in the day...

I did a really nice gig in Richmond last night - a Laughing Horse gig at the Britannia. If you live in the area, you should definitely pop along. Despite having been there at least five times before, Jessica the sat nav and I got hopelessly lost around some back streets of Richmond, and nearly took out a Mini Cooper as well. Serves them right for having a flash car.

My favourite moment of the evening was having arrived at the gig early (knowing Jessica as I do, I try to build in at least six hours' contingency), grabbing a Coke and pretending not to listen to some middle-aged men (Ugly and Stupid) opining.

"Well," started Stupid, "of course, there's always been oddballs around."

"That's true enough," affirmed Ugly. "True enough."

"When I was a lad, a bloke offered me a lift, asked if I'd considered modelling and then he asked me if he could feel my muscles. Dodgy! I said, 'Nah mate, I don't think so.' and he left it at that."

"Well, things were different back then," said Ugly.

"That's true," said Stupid. "Back in the day, paedophiles took no for an answer." Thank you, Stupid. And goodnight.

Bang, gig, cat. Good.

I was in the bath at my parents' house. A bath is a luxury for me, as I only have a shower cubicle, and even that is broken. I was luxuriating in my Sanctuary-product-filled oasis of calm.

"BANG," went a big banging noise.

"What was that?" called I, from the bath. Everyone ignored me. "What was that bang?" I asked. Everyone continued to ignore me. My parents are gits.

I returned to my soapy heaven. The doorbell rang. Someone answered it. "Oh dear," I heard my mum say. "Oh dear." I got out of the bath.

An 85 year-old man stood at the doorstep. At 30 miles an hour he'd driven directly into Dad's parked car. His wife was still in the car, and was injured.

So, by 9 a.m. yesterday morning, the Nunn house was the scene of two fire engines, an ambulance, a paramedic car and three police officers. Luckily no-one was seriously hurt. But perhaps the most worrying thing was that the old woman kept saying, "I just didn't see the car!" This would have been understandable... had she been driving. We have a nasty supsicion that her husband is almost completely blind, and she was guiding him left and right. Clearly, "Mind that fucking huge Volkswagen Passat!" wasn't in her vocabulary.

Did a nice (but slightly odd) gig last night for Knuts Club near Peterborough: http://www.knuts-club.co.uk/nextshow.htm. My favourite part was a brilliant guitarist / singer they had called James Chadwick. Look out for him. He's fab. Here is his website: http://www.james-chadwick.co.uk/index.htm.

And for those of you who didn't believe me - here's the shop I was telling you about.

Cat-chy

I drove back up to Loughborough this evening. It's a route I'm pretty familiar with as I drive up to see my parents every month or so. Still, it requires a fair amount of concentration - nine times out of ten I leave London during rush hour, and it's no myth that London drivers can be aggressive and inconsiderate.

Still, there's one weird thing that almost always happens on the journey. On the way out to the M1, somewhere between Holloway and Archway, I always seem to stop at traffic lights by exactly the same shop. "No biggie," you might think. The thing that amuses me is a) that I always seem to look at the shops at this point (instead of looking at, oh, I don't know - the traffic), but more interestingly b) the name of this shop. The shop front, in huge letters simply says, "NEUTERING STOPS AIDS IN CATS".

There is absolutely no clue what this shop sells. Its name appears to be just a bit of information. I imagine it might be like having a greengrocers called "ISN'T IT FUNNY HOW BUSES ALWAYS TURN UP IN THREES?" or a bookshop called "SOFIA IS THE CAPITAL OF BULGARIA".

One day, perhaps I'll stop, and have a look round the shop that may or may not sell products associated with AIDS prevention in the feline world. Probably I won't though. I don't want want to raise your hopes too high or make promises I can't deliver.