Original subtitles

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.