Original subtitles

Hello.

Hello, Newcastle. Hello.

Hey-hey!

Thank you very much.

Thank you for coming out to the recording of my new special.

Thank you very much.

I hope you have a lovely night.

I'm gonna watch my tone tonight. I'm gonna watch my tone.

I've been getting in trouble a lot for my tone recently.

Mainly in the house, I'll be honest with you.

Apparently it's not what I say...

it's the manner

in which it is said.

Familiar with this?

Apparently in the house when we're shouting,

me and my wife are trying to get each other's attention,

apparently my what, my "what" what is,

and I quote, "full of disdain".

Didn't know a what could be full of disdain, but that's what she says.

This is how it goes. This is how the argument starts.

My wife goes, "Chris!"

I go, "What?"

And she goes,

"Well, if you're gonna be like that about it!"

"What?" "Nothing, doesn't matter now...

"if you're gonna be a bastard about it."

Honestly, I had to change it.

I changed it all the way. I recently changed it to a "yo".

"Chris!" "Yo!"

This guy!

Honestly, it was demoralising.

It sounds like I'm having a mid-life crisis.

It's like she's living with the Fresh Prince of Bel-Air.

I was in my house once and Rosie shouted my name.

And I went, "Yo!"

And my mate was there and he went, "Never say that again."

"Never. Don't you ever let that word fall out of your mouth again."

I just thought I could get away with it,

because I thought a "yo" is so inoffensive.

You can't upset anyone with a "yo". Yo!

Hey, hey! Yo! No one's gonna get offended by that,

to the point where you could walk in on someone shagging your missus.

You'd go, "What the hell's going on here?"

And if they were just like, "Yo", you'd be like...

"I'll let you finish."

If I'm committing the sin around the house,

if I'm committing the cardinal sin of being in a room

where I can't hear her bellowing my name,

or the double sin of having some headphones in,

she will shout and shout and shout

and shout and shout,

getting angrier and angrier and angrier

and louder and louder and louder

until she just bursts into the room that I'm in

and I'm then in the middle of an argument that I didn't know existed.

I'm just sitting on my laptop, headphones in, and she just goes,

"Chris!"

"Yo!" And that...

Turns out you can upset someone with a "yo".

You can do it.

Right?

Do you know what I did, right?

I could tell by the laugh that you did at the beginning

that a few of you in the room are aware of the problem,

disdain in your "what".

I'm gonna fix it for you. I went back to the drawing board.

I took a day off and I remanufactured my "what".

This is how you do it. This is how you don't upset anyone with your "what".

You've got to add a ripple in your "what".

You've got to put a key-change in.

You've got to drop that shit down an octave.

That's what you've got to do. This is how it's done.

"Chris!"

"What?"

That shit's gotta give in halfway through.

It's gotta actually submit. That's how you get away with it.

"Chris!" "What?

"What do you need of me, my darling?

"Which task can you not be arsed to perform yourself?"

"Which part of my life would you like to shit on today?"

"How many iPhone cables do you need?"

"Which lost item do you need me to come and find"

"that will turn out to be in plain fucking sight all along?"

It's not just my tone and it's not just in the house.

I have ruined multiple moments in my life by just saying the wrong thing.

I was genuinely almost, very nearly, a Hollywood movie star.

Very nearly... That laugh hurt, madam.

That... No need for that at all.

Right?

Ten years ago, I genuinely had an audition

for the Hollywood movie "Warhorse".

Me, this fella.

Genuinely. It should have been a slam dunk.

Because the part I auditioned for was actually called

"lad from South Shields".

How stupid would a lad from South Shields have to be

to fuck that up?

You're about to find out.

First audition I've ever had.

I walked into this big posh casting agency in London.

I walked in. The lady running it was very posh, very cool.

But she was on it. "There is your script."

"Come and sit in front of this camera."

"We will turn the camera on in a moment."

"Learn your lines and we will do the audition."

And I'm nervous and I'm panicking.

And you know when you're just from different worlds to someone else?

I was just from a different world to her.

And this is how out of my comfort zone I was.

I was sitting there and I'm looking past the camera

and on the table it was the first time in my life

I'd ever seen a jug of water with cucumbers in it.

Have you seen this? I'd never seen it before.

I didn't know what was going on. I was just staring at it like that.

She caught us looking and she went, "Would you like some cucumber water?"

"No!" I thought she was just washing her cucumbers.

At work as well.

How busy are you?

It just seemed a weird thing to offer someone.

No, I don't want a cup of your sad salady broth,

or a glass of my bath water.

I held it together but it did freak us out

and this is where it all went wrong.

She started making small talk because I'm a slow reader.

She's going, "It's been manic today."

"We have only just today secured our big-name Hollywood director"

"for the movie."

Obviously I said, "Is it a secret or can you tell me who it is?"

This is where it all went wrong. I guarantee

if any one of you in this room was in her position

when I replied with what I did, it would be fine.

You get us, you know who I am, you're on my wavelength.

It would be OK. I'd probably be in that movie now.

What you're about to hear is the reason I am not.

She said,

"Steven Spielberg."

And I said, "Fuck off."

I wish that wasn't true.

She didn't even turn that camera on when that interview started.

I fudged a line and went, "Shall I do that again?"

and she went, "No, it's fine."

I don't like upsetting people.

It's not something I go out of my way to do. I care what people think.

I don't like upsetting my wife. I don't like arguing with my wife.

Me and my wife have been together for seven years.

We've been married for five years.

You know when you're with someone for so long,

you feel like the same being,

you feel like you finish each other's sentences,

you feel like soulmates, like you know each other inside out.

And then one day they turn to you and they say something

that makes you think, "Who the fuck are you?"

"Who are you and who do you think I am?"

"What is this lie?"

You know the kind of sentences I mean

that fall out your partner's mouth now and then.

Things like...

"Shall we just not do presents this Christmas?"

"You talk like that, you'll not be here at Christmas."

It's all right, I'm not gonna murder her, I just want a divorce.

Sentences like, "Chris, do you really need another beer?"

"I need five now after that insult."

And I know you've all heard this one. Ready?

"I'll just have some of your chips."

"Will you now, eh?"

"Will you? Just have some of my chips, will you?"

"Not gonna order some, no? Just gonna have mine when they arrive."

"You've got the chance but you're not gonna do it?"

"When we got married the vows said we'd share everything."

Yeah, but not chips. They didn't mention chips.

The only time chips were mentioned was when they said that

and under my breath I said, "Except chips." I remember it.

I'm 32. I do this for a living.

I consider myself young at heart. My wife's the same. We're quite similar.

But she turned to me the other day and she said, "Chris."

"I think we should get a caravan."

I said, "Yeah, yeah, we should get a caravan",

"for I have suddenly just become your granddad.

"I've just morphed into him now,

"and there's nothing I would like more than to spend my life"

"touring the motorways and A roads of the UK at 50 miles an hour,"

"arguing like shit with you the whole way,"

"towing a trailer of our own faeces behind us."

Exactly how I saw my life panning out at 32.

Eh?

You know what I love on a morning on holiday?

I love a bacon sandwich.

I love a bacon sandwich cooked mere centimetres away

from a defecating family member.

Love that.

Nothing says good morning on holiday to me

like my dad leaning out of the toilet door.

"Brown sauce, son. Brown sauce."

"Shut the door. What are you doing?

"You could have shouted. It's paper thin.

"Why are you opening the door?"

"Open the window at least. No, it is a window."

"It's on the ceiling, looks like a DVD case,"

"but it is a window."

Flies can't even get through it.

Pointless contraptions, right?

As soon as my wife said she wanted it, I started taking the piss.

That's what I do. I take the piss. And she said, "Don't."

"Don't take the piss out of caravans. That's not fair."

"I have got genuine fond memories of my caravan"

"when we were growing up."

Yeah, they had a caravan.

Incredibly, Rosie's family got given a caravan

by her old headmaster.

So they had... It wasn't over-the-top.

It was just your standard hook-onto-the-back-of-your-car caravan

that they were given for free, so they did have a caravan.

What they didn't have: a car.

On my life that is true.

This caravan sat on their drive,

on bricks, for six years.

The saddest, loneliest caravan in the world.

They lived on a main road so it was just watching cars go past.

"Please.

"Please take me with you, please."

"Please take me away from this place."

"Please, I just want to feel grass under my tyres."

"One more time before I perish, please."

It sat there the whole time like a big beige conservatory,

like a great big shitty wheelie bin, like a shed with wheels.

Rosie's mum and dad used to tell people they had a caravan.

They used to go, "Oh, yes, we've got a caravan."

"Oh, really? Where do you summer?" "On the fucking driveway."

"So handy to get to."

Rosie's mum used to go into the caravan on an evening to read!

But it wasn't hooked up because it wasn't in a caravan site

so there was no electricity.

So every night she walked down that drive

with a book, a lamp and an extension lead.

"I'll be in the library if you need me."

I only knew one person with a caravan when I was growing up.

It was my mate's granddad. My mate lived across the road.

Round the corner in the cul-de-sac, his nana and granddad lived there

and their caravan was there most of the year

when they weren't away in it, and my mate used to say to me,

"Let's go and chill out in my granddad's caravan."

I was about nine and I did a couple of times.

Then I stopped because it was really creepy.

We'd go round and that caravan, when they weren't on holiday,

was exclusively used for his granddad to do jigsaws in.

So we'd stand there. You weren't allowed to move.

There was a half-finished jigsaw on the table, the border of it like that.

And every single flat surface in the caravan

had little jigsaw pieces in little sandwich bags.

And they were all organised. Proper serial-killer stuff.

"On that little shelf, don't touch them, yeah?

"That's my little blue and white bits. They're the sky."

"Just down there on the hob, don't touch them."

"They're the little green bits. They're the grass and the trees."

"And over there there's a little bag of human teeth. Don't ask about them."

Honestly. I remember standing there. I went about twice.

And I remember my mate going, "It's great this, innit?"

"No."

"It's really weird."

"And get your granddad to put some clothes on."

When he picked up that jigsaw piece, I nearly passed out.

Rosie keeps telling us different reasons why we should get a caravan.

She keeps bringing them up like little buzzwords and little phrases.

She says things like, "Chris, we need to get a caravan."

"Because the good thing about a caravan is"

"when you wanna go, you can just up and go."

"No booking, no flights, just up and go."

Can you? Is it as easy as that?

Is it just up and go? It's not.

We've all seen the rigmarole

of a family trying to get their giant wheelie bin of a caravan

off their drive.

Normally the trees have grown over it in the garden.

There's weeds holding onto it like Jumanji.

Like that. "It's our caravan now."

There's nine-year-olds with machetes chopping it back. "For the north!"

The dad's trying to hook it on the back of the car and jamming his finger,

telling his kids he never wanted them in the first place.

The wife's in the middle of the street like an angry traffic lady,

just going, "Stop it. No, wait, wait!"

"Bit more, Terry. Bit more."

"Wait. Stop beeping. You will be late for work"

"because we're going to Scarborough."

Selfish. Know what she said the other day?

Rosie went, "Best thing about a caravan is"

"you get to your destination"

"and we will have all of our stuff with us."

Rosie, have you heard of the invention: the suitcase?

It's an incredible bit of kit.

You might not have seen it. It's quite new.

You put all your stuff in, you zip it up,

you get to your destination, you open it...

All your stuff's there. You'd love it. It's got wheels.

You drag it behind you. It's called "the caravan of the hand".

Do you know why this is possibly one of my favourite routines I've ever done?

Because at this stage in the show I can feel you.

You don't think I can, but I can feel you.

The little pockets of caravan owners

who are genuinely furious.

You are, aren't you?

You're gonna hate us even more in a second.

This guy in front of you now,

I have never ever been on a caravanning holiday.

That's the level of dickhead you're dealing with tonight.

I will lacerate it like that and I've never been,

because it takes one bad experience of something

for me to completely write it off forever.

Yeah? Example.

I have also never ever had chicken curry

from the Chinese takeaway.

Gasps. Genuine gasps.

There's people leaving. "Bollocks to him. He's shite."

"I'm gonna have a chicken curry in my caravan. Rubbish. Loser."

I get it, right? I know, I swear.

I'll tell you what happened. I was in junior school.

One lunchtime they had chicken curry on and everyone was losing their minds.

"Oh, my God, it's just like from the Chinese. This is amazing."

All the kids are necking it. One girl inhaled it.

Honestly, it looked revolting.

It looked like bits of chicken bobbing round in gold paint.

Yeah? And I thought, "No, I'm all right for that."

They all ate it. I was a bit, "Eurgh."

Then we had a prizegiving assembly straight after lunch.

The teacher was giving out prizes

and we were in semi-circles, cross-legged on the floor.

I had a front-row view of the girl in question

and I will never forget.

I will never forget the noise...

the noise she made

as that Chinese chicken curry exploded from her face.

It was unreal. It was satanic.

It was a bark and it was once.

Like a shotgun.

And the whole curry came out of her head.

In one go.

She was sitting there like that.

Like that, the whole lot.

One go.

The whole thing, all of it.

All of it. Her head opened like a Pez dispenser.

- It was...

And it literally went airborne and it hit the ground and it went...

And there was bits of chicken rolling past the wave of bile.

Full, like she'd necked them whole like a baby bird.

Kids were standing up, screaming, crying

and running while being sick themselves.

Kids were climbing on the piano. Teachers were getting in their cars.

And I'll never forget the carnage.

Three dinner ladies ran in with hymn books

and dammed it.

"Run, kids. Save yourselves. Run!"

They diverted it into the cloakroom. "Sorry, Jesus. Sorry, Jesus."

"Sorry, Jesus."

So whenever someone says to me now,

"Do you wanna get Chinese chicken curry?", I go, "Er... no."

The caravan one is even worse, right?

This is what happened with the caravan. This is the bad experience.

My mate across the road went away for a weekend

with his mum and his dad and his sister.

They borrowed the grandma and grandpa's caravan.

They went away to the Lake District for a full weekend.

Sunday morning, they're planning to come back Sunday afternoon,

his dad ate an undercooked sausage

from the barbecue that he'd cooked himself.

And he sort of wrestled with it all day,

saying, "I'll be fine, I'll be fine."

They left it as late as they possibly could to leave.

They had to leave to get the kids in bed for school the next day.

So the plan was, the mother sat in the car,

towing the caravan, breaking the speed limit,

flying home to get her kids in bed for school the next day.

The dad spent the full journey home, A roads, speed bumps,

swerving, potholes, on the toilet in the caravan!

An '80s hand-me-down caravan! "Aaaaargh!"

Emptying himself into a weekend's worth of his family's already mess that's there,

like Satan's blender.

"Aaaargh!"

She's swerving, she's breaking the speed limit,

she's braking, she's stopping, she's braking.

The bottom of the toilet comes fully loose from the fixings.

He is on his back, holding the toilet on his arse,

spinning round like a dirty turtle.

He gets up, he opens the toilet door,

covered, he's covered.

And this is why I hate caravans.

He opens that door and with one swoop of his dirty arm

he destroys the dining table, the kitchen, the living room and the bedroom.

Poo, poo, poo, poo, poo. Write-off, yeah?

He's like a swamp thing

and he moves his way to the front, ruining everything.

And he's looking through the window. This is before mobile phones.

So he's got the kids. He's going, "Kids!"

"Kids, please!" The kids finally see and they go,

"Dad!"

They think it's a game.

The full journey is, "Kids!"

"Dad!"

"Kids!"

"Dad!"

"Get your mum!"

"Get YOUR mum!"

- They just...

I heard of what had happened at school,

so straight away Monday night I went straight round

with my mate to his gran and grandpa's house.

That caravan was on the driveway

with every possible door and window open.

It was like a scene from "The Walking Dead".

Honestly, his nana was in there,

tea towel wrapped round her head,

mop and a disinfectant spray,

giving it all this, like a Chernobyl nana.

Next door there was a lawnmower in the middle of a half-mowed lawn

where the wind had changed and the bloke had ran back in his house.

And the saddest sight, the real victim of this whole thing,

I looked into that garage and I saw on a wallpaper-pasting table

my mate's granddad finishing his jigsaw.

Dirty bastard.

I told Rosie this story. I said, "That is why I'll never go in a caravan."

She said, "You're a psycho. You're living in the past."

I said, "You didn't smell it, Rosie."

Then she said something that made me realise

I'd completely won this argument.

Listen carefully. This is what she said. "Chris..."

"We need to get a caravan. It will change our lives forever.

"It will be amazing. Picture this, Chris."

"We can pick our son up from nursery"

"on a Friday afternoon"

"and we can... pop..."

Pop.

Pop.

Pop.

Pop. Listen carefully.

"We can pick our son up on a Friday afternoon from nursery"

"and we can pop"

"to France for the weekend."

"Could we? Could we pop?

"Could we pop to France for the weekend

"from the northeast of England"

"at 50 miles an hour, towing a caravan,"

"on a Friday afternoon when the traffic's at its best,"

"with a toddler who's gonna want to stop every five minutes?"

She went, "You're so narrow-minded. What's wrong with you?"

"You never think outside the box. Just picture it."

"We could drink champagne in Champagne."

First of all, I thought she meant a paddling-pool full.

And I thought, "Mate, we'll do that tomorrow on the drive. That's amazing."

What she meant was

the region of France called Champagne is where they make champagne.

I didn't know this, I'll be honest with you.

Rosie's been watching a lot of "Escape to the Chateau" recently,

quite frankly getting ideas above her station,

coming out with shit like that.

I went, "That's your plan? We're gonna drive to Champagne?"

She went, "Yeah. Pop over for the weekend."

I went, "Good." I opened my laptop, I got up Google Maps.

I planned the route, because I'm that kind of dick.

The region of Champagne in France is 750 miles from my front door.

That's a 13-hour drive in one direction.

That's a 26-hour round trip.

You add in the fact that we have a toddler who'll want to stop,

that we are circumnavigating London on a Friday afternoon,

which will be a right laugh, and that we are towing a fucking caravan,

that is around about, I've worked it out,

about a 31.5-hour round trip at best.

You add in two nights of sleeping,

which we will have to do on this weekend,

we are left with a whopping half an hour.

Half an hour for me to sit in Champagne

and watch my wife neck a bottle of champagne

that I can't touch because I've got to fucking drive her back.

The caravan we've got is lovely, though.

- It's so nice.

Beautiful.

Her mum's in it now, reading. It's a lush little thing, gorgeous.

Do you know the real reason I couldn't have one?

It's the hatred

that we all throw at caravans as we overtake them on the motorway.

You do. You might not even know you're doing it, but you do.

Every time you overtake a caravan,

they might not have even been blocking up the road,

you might be on a six-lane motorway, you might be miles away from them,

but you all do it, you overtake them and you go...

"Got a caravan, have you?"

"Fuck you and your caravan."

All the time, you do.

"Got a little wing mirror there, have you?"

"With another wing mirror attached to it."

"Yeah?"

"Is that to see the best bits of your life because they're behind you?"

Honestly, I couldn't handle the hatred that comes with having a caravan

because I've got this ridiculous narcissistic need

to be liked by strangers. I mean...

Obvs! "Watch me."

I need to be liked. It's pathetic. The weirdest one I did recently,

I ran out of underpants.

That's not the full story but I'm glad you're on board.

I ran out of underpants.

I exclusively, for years, wore only H&M David Beckham underpants.

They weren't proper expensive or flashy, they just felt like they were made for me.

Honestly, every time I put them on, I heard my balls go, "Aaah."

It was lush, right?

They weren't flashy,

they just had David Beckham written across the top,

like I'd been doing PE with him and stole them.

You wear the ones out the box, David. You wear them. These are mine.

I loved them. I wore just them and only them.

And I needed to get some more in because all of them were knackered.

The gusset was a warzone. It was craziness.

It was like a colander. It was horrendous.

Some of them were just the belt bit.

So light and breathable. Feels like I haven't got a pair on.

So I went to H&M to get a restock.

They have discontinued the David Beckham range.

If I ever meet him, I will not be able to stop myself

telling him how livid I am about it.

If me and my wife ever meet Posh and Becks

in any kind of celebrity situation,

what happens that night will be read out at the court case

for the restraining order that they will absolutely be filing for.

Rosie will be hanging on her, going, "Why couldn't you do the reunion tour?"

"It wasn't the same."

Snot all over her.

And I'll be with him, dead sinister, going,

"Look, I don't wanna freak you out, mate,"

"but they just cupped, they just..."

"Ah, they just cupped, man. It was like a warm hand, Dave.

"I always imagined it was your hand, every time.

"Every time I put those bad boys on, honestly, they were just..."

"Hey, you must have some left kicking about round the house."

"You've got to have some in the house. Sort a brother out."

"Hey, they don't have to be new."

"They don't have to be clean."

"Come on. What you got on? What are you wearing now?"

"Untuck your shirt."

"Why are you struggling? Why are you being weird? Stop it."

I'll be dragged away by one security guard, going,

"At least write your name on the ones I'm wearing, you twat. It'll be the same."

She'll be dragged away by another one. "You don't even need to sing, Victoria."

"Just stand there like you used to."

So I genuinely shed a tear. I was devastated in H&M.

I turned round, I walked out and I went to a few different shops

and I got a load of different pairs of underpants,

different styles from a load of different shops.

And I took them home

and I sort of put them through a rigorous testing regime.

I'm putting them on. I've got a full day off.

I'm putting them on. I'm just lunging round the house.

I'm lunging, I'm squatting, I'm picking stuff up.

I'm putting pants on and off, yeah?

I'm turning up the heating full pelt and just sitting in a leather chair...

seeing where they end up.

I'm going to the toilet and seeing if I can navigate the willy maze.

You know the willy maze that some of them have got?

You can pull it down or you can go right angle, right angle

and piss.

I'm looking at button placement. Button placement's very important.

If you've got ones with little buttons on, if them buttons are too far apart,

that is the difference between being able to answer the door

to an Amazon delivery driver in your underpants

or not.

Them buttons are too far apart, it's like, "I've got a package for YOU."

"Hello."

So I found the winners, and I'm not ashamed to say:

Tesco, own brand.

Got a pair of the bad lads on tonight.

So what I did was, I thought, "I'm gonna go for a full restock."

So I dropped my son off at nursery, nine o'clock on a Friday morning,

I jumped in the car and I'm going up to the big Tesco.

And I'm thinking, "Weekend's coming."

"This big Tesco also does my favourite craft beer by the case."

I thought, "That's brilliant. I'll get a couple for the weekend."

So I'm off to get my two crates of beer and my 30 pairs of underpants.

I've done the maths on this.

I'm gonna keep some in storage, rotate them.

If my maths is correct, I will be buried in a pair of these bad lads.

I went up there to the Tesco, full of the joys of spring, loving life.

I got my trolley, I put my two cases of beer in,

I put my 30 pairs of underpants in.

I stopped for a moment and I looked at the contents of that trolley.

- Thank you, thank you.

Thank you. It's not just me, is it?

I thought, "I can't go to the till with that."

"At nine o'clock on a Friday morning, I cannot...

"I cannot take just two cases of beer and 30 pairs of underpants."

"That is a breakdown in a basket. That is..."

"That's the shopping list of a man who's just lost access to his kids."

"That's..."

I cannot do it.

That looks like my whole plan for the day is to just get pissed

and shit myself non-stop,

again and again, and never learn my lesson.

"Oh, I did it again."

"It's all right, I've got loads of them."

You know when you're taking something to the till and you're self-conscious?

You look in their eyes and you go, "You're gonna tell people about this later."

"I know you are. I'm gonna be your anecdote."

I can just imagine the lady in the staff room later on going,

"That Chris Ramsey was in earlier on."

"I see he must be having another one of his celebrity pants parties tonight."

Telling everyone how on a Friday I'm just in my house with music blaring,

standing there: "Come on in, everyone."

"There's beer in the fridge, there's underpants in the bucket."

"Let's go mental."

Ding-dong. "Is that Beckham? Right, no pants for Beckham."

"No pants. See how you like it."

So what I did was,

I unpacked the trolley, I put everything back.

I went and got a basket and I just filled the basket

with 30 pairs of underpants.

And it was full, yeah?

And that's still weird, so I thought, "I don't want any humans to see this,"

so I went to the self-service

and I started beeping them through, right?

To my horror, I shit you not,

there were 30 security tags

on 30 pairs of underpants,

which, A, tells you how rough that Tesco is,

and, B, backs up how fucking good these underpants are.

Let's be honest here, guys,

I picked right.

If someone burgles your house,

the chances are they're wearing a pair of them bad lads.

The criminal underworld love them.

This poor lady had to come over

and take 30 security tags off 30 pairs of underpants

at nine in the morning on a Friday.

She did it in silence. I was redder than I've ever been.

And I walked out and I ran down to the carpark

and I put the underpants in my boot and I changed my top...

and I went back in.

If you know me, you know that's not bullshit.

I changed my top

so I wouldn't be recognised when I went back in.

And I got my trolley and I went back to the beer aisle.

I got my two cases and I thought, "Genius, I'll go back to the self-service."

Fucking idiot. "Approval needed."

The same woman...

The same woman came marching back over.

There's veins popping on my head, steam coming off. I'm so red, it's painful.

And to be fair to her, she looked at the beer, looked at me,

looked at the beer, looked at me and said,

"Are you celebrating your new pants?"

I hate her. I hate her!

Such weird stuff to worry about, man, honestly,

but I just spend my whole life worrying.

That's how I'd sum up my day. I sit and worry.

I worry so much about my son. Everyone worries about their kids.

But I worry on another level about him.

Put it this way, has anyone else, by way of cheer,

has anyone else in the room got a toddler who...

regularly and loudly and quite flamboyantly,

full name, refers to theirselves in the third person?

It's always nice to hear that silence.

That genuinely screams at me, "Just you with the psycho child."

He's brilliant. I love him. He's the best.

But the first time he referred to himself in the third person, I was freaked out.

We were in the kitchen one morning and he just went, "Daddy",

"Robin Ramsey would like a bowl of cereal."

"Eurgh."

Eurgh. Like a horror film. Eurgh.

"Get in the shed." Eugh.

Later on, the same day, he was like, "Daddy",

"Robin Ramsey needs a wee-wee."

Eurgh.

Holy water. "Back, demon, back."

Honestly, one morning I'm gonna wake up

and he's gonna be sitting on my chest with a knife.

"Robin Ramsey needs you no longer, Father."

He does it in the street. He does it to strangers.

And you see them trying to hide how freaked out they are.

He only does it now and then but he goes full hog.

You see them go, "Ah, he's..."

"Isn't he? He's..."

"Eh? Isn't he?"

Honestly, in our street he'd be like,

"Robin Ramsey likes your dog."

"Bring your dog to Robin Ramsey."

"Mm, mm..."

"Yes, yes."

"One day your dog will die."

"Robin Ramsey will be there."

"Come on, we're leaving. Come on."

I worry about things that haven't even happened yet in his life.

Me and Rosie were watching a proper trashy American dating show.

The other week we were sitting watching it.

And there was this guy crying

because he hadn't been paired up with the woman he wanted.

It was just trashy American-dating-show shit.

And he was crying, this guy, and I'm watching it

and I'm crying my eyes out with this bloke.

I was balling my eyes out and Rosie caught us and she went,

"Are you...?"

"Are you crying at this shit?"

And I went, "It's not this, Rosie, it's just...

"I've just realised that..."

"one day..."

"Robin might get his heart broken."

"What will we do?"

To be fair to her, she went,

"We'll start by not worrying about it while he's three, you psychopath."

That's what I was doing.

In my head he was three in a nightclub and he couldn't pull.

And he was gutted about it and he was dead vulnerable.

He's in the corner of a nightclub, sitting on a speaker, going,

"Will no one love Robin Ramsey?"

"Robin Ramsey will die alone."

It might not be a girl who breaks his heart.

Might be a boy. He might be gay.

And I worry about that because I want to be a good enough dad

so that he can tell me straight away.

If my son's gay, I wanna be the first person he comes out to.

- I want him to march up to us... Bless.

I want to have that kind of relationship with him.

I wanna...

If my son even thinks he might be gay,

I want him to march up to me and go, "Father..."

"Robin Ramsey despises vagina."

"That's fine, son. Great."

Sadly that's not always the case. Some parents are the last to know.

Rosie used to be best mates with this gay guy when she was 20.

And they used to go out on a Friday night, get drunk,

and then they used to go and stay at his house.

He still lived with his mum and dad and they'd stay there.

And one Saturday morning, she told me, they were making breakfast

and the guy's dad came downstairs.

And he went, "Hey, you two, last night, eh?"

"Keep it down next time, you dirty bastards."

And Rosie was like, "But..." And he went, "Shh."

And he hadn't told his dad. Everyone else knew.

His dad didn't know. That would break my heart.

Do you wanna know what the dad heard that he thought was sex?

What he actually heard was Rosie and her mate at 3:00am, hammered,

learning the dance to "Single Ladies" by Beyoncé.

Yes!

Incredible way to end your night,

but what kind of fucked-up sex did he think he was hearing?

Rosie's a professional dancer.

When you get it wrong, she shouts at you.

She gets angry, right? Our wedding dance looks romantic.

I was crying. I was scared.

She's in my ear, going, "Don't you step on my toes again!"

That poor guy. I can just imagine. The dad's listening through the wall

and she's going, "Your rhythm's off. Your rhythm's off."

"Jesus Christ, son."

"Bloody hell, you better listen to her. She sounds like she means business."

"Is my arse sticking out enough? Is it out enough? Look at it."

"Fucking hell, son."

"Better get him some Savlon. He's gonna be red raw in the morning."

"Bloody hell."

"For God's sake, it'll be better when we do it with all my friends."

"Legend, that kid. I'm buying him a car."

People are saying at the minute... It's in the news at the minute.

At what age should you teach children

about people being gay and about people being trans

and different things like that?

And I don't like to tell you all what to think in my stand-up.

That's not the kind of comic I am. But I'm gonna tell you my opinion.

And my opinion is: tell the kids that as early as you can.

As early as they can grasp it, tell them.

Because kids are so accepting and they do not judge.

Recently, me and my mate Jordan went into a café near where I live

and we took Robin in.

It was one of them cafés we've all been to, especially with kids.

It's one of them cafés you walk in

and the parents go to one side and have their coffee and panini

and the children go to one corner of the café

and they choose which childhood disease they'd like

from the pile of saliva-encrusted, disgusting scabby toys

that have been there for ten years.

So me and Jordan are having a coffee,

and Robin is playing with the café owner's son who's the same age.

We had a great time, stayed for a couple of coffees, then left.

I went back to that café recently

and that café owner told me

that his son had been asking to play with my son since we'd been there.

He didn't know who Robin was,

so he said, "Son, who's Robin? Which child is Robin?"

Know what his son said? His son said, "Robin is the boy with two dads."

That's fucking lovely.

Was he offended? Was he upset? Did he think Robin was weird?

He just thought he was a boy with two dads and he accepted it.

Was I upset? Was I offended? Absolutely not.

Because that little kid thinks I could pull Jordan!

Me!

You won't know Jordan but he's my fittest mate.

Jordan is my fittest mate by a mile. If he was here, you'd all be naked now.

Genuinely. Straight blokes as well, you'd be going,

"Fucking look at him. I don't know why I'm doing this."

It was the best compliment I've ever had. I floated out of that café on air.

I did, and I've been swinging my dick around in the house since then.

That's the confidence boost I needed in my relationship.

Whenever Rosie goes, "Your what's full of disdain,"

I go, "You're living on borrowed time. I can pull Jordan. People are saying it."

Some people are saying that you shouldn't teach kids at all.

I see them on the news going, "Don't teach the kids about being gay,"

"because it will turn them gay."

Will it? Will it really?

It won't and I'll tell you how I know.

Because my son is currently being taught art,

and the front of my fridge is a fucking embarrassment.

When I think about my son,

my little boy having to learn sex education one day at school,

it freaks us out because it reminds us of mine.

And my sex education at school was a farce, an utter farce.

I was ten years old in the juniors

and they taught sex education for the first time,

they dipped their toe in.

It basically involved my teacher reading from a folder

as fast as she possibly could.

Because she was my normal teacher, not a specialist that was brought in.

She had to teach me science the next day.

So, she literally sat there and went, "Right."

"That gets hard, put it in there, wiggle it about, a baby comes out."

"Go home and wash your ears. I'm ashamed of you all."

It was like a wind had blown through the class.

We all went, "Fuck." We had nosebleeds.

She went, "Any questions?"

She then said the words that I'm sure she came to regret.

She said,

"Does anyone have any questions

"about anything you've heard outside of the class

"from older children, from siblings, heard on the TV,"

"that you think might have something to do with sex but you're not sure?"

"You can ask me now."

"Ask me anything."

She then said the words that she'd come to regret even more:

"Ask me anything. You will not get in trouble."

A hand flies up.

It's mine.

"Miss, what's knob cheese?"

"And why can't I find it in the supermarket?"

She calmly...

and concisely and professionally

explained to ten-year-old me what knob cheese was,

and that if I found it in the supermarket,

I should alert the manager immediately.

She said, "Any other questions?" A different hand shoots up.

It's my other hand.

It's me once more.

"Miss, when will I get my period?"

"All the other boys say they've got theirs and they're making fun of me."

She explains professionally and concisely

to ten-year-old me

that I would never get my period

and that if I did, something had gone terribly wrong.

I should maybe adjust my bike seat.

You had to finish that one yourself. It's horrible, innit? Enjoy that.

That's my little mental present to you this evening.

She said, "Any other questions?"

You saw her visibly breathe a sigh of relief

as across the classroom at the back she saw a hand shoot up.

It was the reflection in the window of my hand.

It was me again.

"Miss, what's an orgy?"

"And why are people saying that my mum was there?"

She calmly and concisely and professionally explained

to ten-year-old me exactly what an orgy was

and that my mum probably wasn't there.

I inundated this teacher

with every single sexual reference and swear word I had ever heard.

She was my sexual Wikipedia. I shit you not,

no other child's hand went up that full lesson.

Not one. It was me, again and again and again and again.

Children were ageing around me.

There were three birthday parties during that class.

Childhood innocence was shattered. Kids were crying.

I asked her what rimming was. She went to get the headmaster.

I wasn't in trouble, she just didn't know.

Genuinely, I didn't get in trouble.

I could not get in trouble for this.

She said, "You cannot get in trouble," and I'm telling you,

this was not only the greatest lesson I ever had at Mowbray Junior School,

but it also led to the only, only positive comment

I ever got on a report from that teacher

and it genuinely said,

"Chris is not afraid to ask questions in class."

Oh, God.

It's all I do, worry. You gotta worry about your family.

It's the main thing about having a family.

I worry mainly... I nearly died recently.

- Thank you.

- What the fuck's your problem? - Sorry, sorry.

I genuinely nearly died recently,

protecting my family from a home invasion.

You're right to clap. Settle down. I'm just a normal guy. I'm just a man.

I'm not a hero.

I was in my son's bedroom during the day last month.

I'm in the bedroom. I'm putting his clothes into his drawers.

He's got a flat roof on his bedroom.

On the roof I heard...

Obviously my first thought was, "Santa?"

In May.

I came to my senses and I genuinely thought,

"We're getting burgled. This is it."

"Someone's burgling me during the day, the cheeky shits."

I dropped all the stuff and I silently went across to the window.

I opened the window quietly. I climbed up on the sill.

I put one foot on the inside bit, one on the outside bit.

I ducked under the window. I held onto the middle bit.

And I lifted up and I looked up onto the top of the roof

and I was face to face

with the biggest seagull I have ever seen in my life.

It was massive. It was the worst.

I've never been that close. It was huge. It was imposing.

Give a cheer if you love seagulls.

Exactly. Wankers. No one likes them. They're the worst.

A mate of mine can do an impression of a seagull.

He doesn't do the noise, he just nicks your chips and shits on your car.

Huge thing, huge, and I'm like that, and I'm face to face with it.

It looked at me and I looked at it and we're like that.

It screamed in my face.

Watch 'em. That's what they do.

They don't tweet, they don't quack, they don't cheep,

they...

99% sure they're saying fuck.

It went, "Fuck!" and I went, "Fuck!"

It went, "Fuck!" and I went, "Fuck!"

And it went, "Fuck!" and I went, "Fuck!"

"Fuck!" "Fuck!"

"Fuck!" "Fuck!"

"Fuck!" "Fuck!"

I wasn't backing down. This is my house.

This went on for hours. "Fuck!" "Fuck!"

"Fuck!" "Fuck!"

It did this thing. I don't know if you've ever crept up on a bird but...

It's gonna sound so bad out of context, that, innit?

That's gonna sound so bad.

"How was his observational comedy?" "Pretty creepy.

"Pretty sinister, pretty creepy, yeah."

"You wanna keep an eye on that fella."

I don't know if you've ever crept up on a bird,

but it didn't know I was there and it turned and went, "Fuck!"

And they do this thing where they flap at you.

It's really weird. They don't fly away because they're hard as fuck, seagulls.

They just go, "Oh, you can fuck right off."

And I'm going, "Fuck, fuck!" And it's going, "Fuck!"

And I'm going, "Fuck!"

And then its feather... touched my face.

"Fuck! Fuck!"

And I fell back and I grabbed a hold of my son's curtain

and I pulled myself back in

and I hit my shoulder blade off the radiator and I lay on the floor,

out of breath, after nearly being murdered,

murdered by a seagull.

Honestly, two floors up, I'd have fell and landed on the drive

and I think that would've been it.

I lay there, and they say your life flashes before your eyes

when you're about to die. It doesn't.

You just get one bit over and over and over again.

Do you know which bit I got?

The bit where its feather touched my fucking face.

Yeah? The feather of a weasel of the sky.

A smackhead with wings.

On my delicate face.

I remember thinking, "If I fall, I'm gonna have to land on my face"

"because I need a new face."

Oh!

Ever since that happened, you'd think,

"I bet there's no seagulls there anymore. I bet you've scared them off."

It's the opposite. It's freaking us right out.

It's the opposite. There are more of them,

in greater numbers, more regularly, and they're louder.

Big gangs of seagulls on that roof. Every single day they wake my son up.

I know what they're doing.

I know what they're up to. I know how they think.

They're all up there in a gang, all of them, like that.

In a big line.

"Keep doing it, guys. Keep doing it. Keep doing it, guys.

"Keep going. Keep stamping. Keep stamping, loud as you can.

"Gary, peck it. Peck it as well, Gary.

"Keep going, everyone. Honestly, keep going.

"Keep doing it. Keep doing it, honestly.

"I'm telling you, the man comes out.

"He's fucking nuts. He's nuts.

"Pops his little head out there. I nearly killed him the other week.

"Lads, it's incredible.

"It's amazing, honestly. Shout fuck at him, he shouts it back.

"It's amazing. It's the best thing in the world."

"Hold on, he's coming. He's coming."

"Here he comes. Who won the raffle?"

"Brian, you won the raffle? You get to touch his face."

So, after my brush with death...

which it genuinely was, I had an epiphany.

I don't have many of them.

I lay on my son's floor, out of breath, my back hurting,

and I thought, "Chris, all you do is worry

"about the future, about things that haven't happened,"

"about the world being a better place, about people accepting your son."

"Why don't you do something about this?"

"Why don't you enact some change yourself?"

So I decided there and then to just be a better person,

to give, to help

to just help people and do things for people

and I thought, "That's how I'm gonna live my life."

That passed after about half an hour, something like that.

When my back started feeling better, I was like, "Fuck that hippy shit."

I kept a bit of it. I did keep a bit of it.

I did, so it wasn't a total waste.

My new mantra is,

if you are needing me to do something for you,

and that thing you need is close to me,

and not heavy,

and free,

there's a 50% chance I'll do that thing.

That's the kinda guy you're dealing with. The knighthood is in the post.

The knighthood is in the post.

I put this into action recently. I put this into action.

I was on a train on a Friday night at six o'clock,

leaving London King's Cross.

I'm on the train, coming all the way back to Newcastle for the weekend.

It was packed with business people who've been doing business in London.

Then they come up for the weekend and they go back down on the Monday.

And when I do a TV show, they'll pay for you to go first class.

I'm in the first-class carriage with business people on laptops.

I'm at a table of four. Me on a laptop. Bloke opposite me on a laptop.

Bloke next to him on a laptop. Bloke there on a laptop.

Across the aisle there's a single table with one man sitting there.

There's drinks on there as well when you're on the first-class one.

They get drinks. Free drinks trolley.

I had the car at the station so I didn't need a drink.

Trolley goes past and I hear a bit of a kerfuffle

between the man sitting there and the guy with the trolley.

Then it leaves.

The man leans over the aisle and he taps me on the shoulder.

He said, "I'm sorry to bother you, mate,"

"but could you do me a favour?"

I said, "Yes."

"I don't want to bore you, but I was nearly murdered by a seagull."

"Honestly, you asked us a month ago, I'd have told you to go fuck yourself."

I said, "Yes, mate, what do you need?"

He said, "I get this train back every Friday."

"I work in London all week.

"I know all the staff on this train. This train's like my night out, mate.

"They always sort us out a couple of extra cheeky vodka diet cokes.

"But this man pushing this trolley tonight,

"he is only allowing me one vodka diet coke at a time."

"So what I'm asking is, I noticed you weren't drinking,"

"can you, when the trolley comes past, order a vodka diet coke,"

"and when he's gone, slide it across to me?"

I said, "I'll stop you right there, sir."

"Are you asking me to pretend I want an alcoholic drink?"

"Are you asking me to act? I was nearly in a Steven Spielberg film."

"You've come to the right guy."

I was genuinely excited because, A, I'm up for giving him a drink.

Why not? He wants a night out. There's no harm in that.

And B, this is the closest I get to being in "Ocean's Eleven".

This is the heist of the century for me.

I'm buzzing. I'm practising my lines. I'm getting excited.

I saw the trolley coming back and I genuinely went to the guy,

"It's coming back."

"I know. Just chill out. I know." I went, "OK."

It came back and he ordered.

Then the guy went to me, "Evening, sir." And I panicked. I went, "Yo."

I was practising my lines, right? I was genuinely thinking of them.

And he went, "Would you like a drink?" And I went, "Mm..."

I didn't wanna do it straight away so I went, "Mm-mm."

"Mm-mm, mm...

"Would I...?" Don't know what that was.

"Would I like a drink? Would I like a beverage?

"Do you know what? I would like an alcoholic beverage.

"Um, I would like... Hm...

"I would like a vodka and coke." He coughed so loud.

"Diet! Diet!"

"Diet coke is my preferred coke. Thank you."

And he looked weird at the guy and he looked at me but he gave us it.

And I looked at him and I was like, "Sorted, brother. Sorted."

Then something I was not expecting happened.

From the silence, from the stuffiness

of that business-filled first-class carriage

the man across from me,

from nowhere, from behind his laptop,

ordered a vodka and diet coke.

The man next to him...

ordered a vodka and diet coke.

The man next to me...

The man next to me...

ordered a coffee.

He didn't. I'm joking. He ordered a fucking vodka and diet coke.

And we all sat there and held them and I looked at them,

in a little silent look as if to go, "Are we doing this?

"Is this what's happening?" And we all gave each other a little nod.

And we're looking over to the guy. I thought his head was gonna explode.

He was sitting at his single table, shaking like that.

He was loosening his tie. He was sweating.

And I'm going, "It is. This is it. It's happening."

"It's vodka diet coke Spartacus."

"This is wonderful."

And we all look, silently, we're looking at the guy.

I looked up at the bloke with the trolley. He knew.

He knew exactly what was going on.

And he knew we knew he knew.

That was the best bit because he knew we knew he knew we knew he knew.

And he knew we knew he knew we knew he knew we knew he knew.

And there was nothing he could do.

"I think you'll find we are abiding by your one-drink-per-person policy,"

"so why don't you just piss off with your little trolley of fascism"

"and we'll get this party started."

It was amazing.

Guys...

We sat there,

us, in silence, sat there, holding them, us newly formed band of brothers,

four band of brothers, newly formed on that train,

and we silently and coolly and suavely

handed our fifth brother four extra vodka diet cokes.

It was incredible.

I'm never part of something like that. It was the coolest I've ever felt.

His table was rammed. I've seen nothing like it.

He was piling them on top of each other, necking bottles to get rid of them.

He was going, "Hey, guys, thank you, thank you."

"Hey, my brother... Not a problem at all, sir."

And I turn to these guys. No one said anything.

It was cool as anything. Every now and then we'd look and go...

So cool. I mean, I nearly got a hernia

suppressing my excitement,

suppressing my need to go,

"We should get tattoos."

We sat there. And stuff like that never happens in public.

Especially on public transport. People are always out for theirself.

But us four, band of brothers, sat there in silence,

and we watched our fifth brother

turn into the most annoying drunken knob

you have ever had the misfortune of sitting next to on a train.

He was fucking unbearable.

He was horrible. I don't know if he'd had a drink before.

You know your mate who has one drink and is a total arsehole straight away?

He was like that times ten,

and he wasn't my mate in the first place so it was even worse.

He was loud, he was obnoxious,

he was a pain in the arse, he was rude to the staff.

We sat there, going, "What have we done?"

"We've created a monster. This is a nightmare."

Right? He did a few things.

He started drumming on his table.

Annoying.

He used to be a drummer in a band.

How do I know? Because he told us, seven fucking times,

that he used to be a drummer in a piss-weak band.

He took his shoes off.

Don't do it. It's not your living room. Don't take your shoes off on a train.

He took his socks off.

He moved his bare feet into the aisle and he did that with his toes,

flaky skin falling off them bad boys.

If that air conditioning had been on one level higher,

we'd have been in a snow globe.

He whipped his iPad out, he started watching "Coronation Street"

with no headphones.

He basically decided the full carriage was watching "Coronation Street".

And I kept looking, going...

He thought I was interested and I went, "No, no."

"I don't watch 'Coronation Street'."

He tried to catch me up on "Coronation Street".

Fifty-nine fucking years of "Coronation Street"!

York station came,

and the lucky bastard opposite me stood up,

slammed his laptop closed, put it in his bag, and said,

"Well, this has been delightful,"

in a tone that said to me that this was all my fault

and that the band of brothers was broken forever

and that we weren't gonna get tattoos.

I saw him walk down that aisle.

He got off there and I saw him walk down the platform.

And I thought, "Take us with you."

"I could start a life in York. Fuck Rosie. I could live with you in York."

"I can't put up with this man any longer."

That hour to Newcastle from York was the longest hour of my life.

I got to Newcastle.

I jumped up. I had my bag ready.

I had my caravan of the hand ready. I was ready to rock 'n' roll.

Yeah? All of the staff were getting off at the same time.

So I'm running, trying to get through all the staff

and dickhead's going, "Let's go for a Chinese."

"Many reasons why I can't go for a Chinese with you."

And I jumped off that train and I sprinted down the platform.

Someone grabbed my arm. I turned and looked.

It was the man who'd been pushing the trolley.

He looked me in the eye and said to me, "That's why he only gets one at a time."

"I'm so sorry. I'll never do that again."

"I'm never gonna do nice things for anyone ever."

You might think that sounds harsh, never doing nice things for anyone.

It's not harsh because the story's not over.

I ran with my little caravan of the hand

and I got to the machine where you pay for the parking.

The man in front paying for his parking was taking an age.

He turned round. He looked familiar.

It was the bloke who'd got off at York.

"You! You got off at York!"

He went, "I didn't. I walked down and jumped onto the next carriage."

I said, "What?" And that "what" was full of disdain.

Guys...

You've been amazing.

Thank you so, so much.

I'll see you again sometime. Good night.

Love you.