THE start of the year was an interesting one. On January 12, I got knocked out by an emu at the zoo (never try to take a selfie with an emu) and spent the night in hospital. The next day, I walked out of the hospital and into the maternity unit for my wife to have a baby... she’s all kinds of lucky that wummin.

On another day, I was busy spinning various plates, with my pad and paper at my desk, and received a text from my son’s nursery asking if I could take down some clothes as he had somehow managed to crap up his back. This image of some hard-working nursery worker with him at arm’s length at the end of giant tongs, his wee face filled with glee like a honking burrito... oh yeah, man – the glamour is amazing.

We comics, I think, like to portray ourselves as cool, beatnik poets, sitting in cafes all day with black leather pads and berets, clicking our fingers in delight as we think of a new witty quip for Radio 4.

How dare they?! I live in a world of hair, ADHD and chaos… mostly hair, anyway. Tumbling through life like a bin bag full of boobs down a hill.

The protection I have is innate and irritating positivity – and the ability to try to not be a total Jack & Danny with whatever is thrown at me.

So, what’s an average day?

Like half the planet, I’m kicking off with hitting the gym.

Despite looking like I guard a bridge, my non-drinking, drug-free, straight-edge lifestyle has afforded none of the physical benefits – unless you count a banging DVD collection. Clearly something has to be done, as once, ordering a coffee in a Costa, I pulled a neck muscle yawning. Try to keep ordering a Mouchalatte-meeneymindyamericachocafrappachino looking like you’re trying to gnaw your own arm off while sounding like Chewbacca.

I bagged a very talented PT to work with me, but one hour in the gym and I hurt all over. I’m unsure if it’s because I’m getting older or because I seem to have the

co-ordination of a handcuffed crab.

Release itself only comes in the form of stirring up a little bit of chaos. My time in the maternity unit has been mostly spent running towards a lift full of people with a sign saying “out of order” and screaming “WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAIIIIII-IIIIITTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTT”!

I called it a bit of a laugh… the police called it “urban terrorism”.

Just imagine the film of your life. All these huge Hollywood movies, chronicling the careers of music stars like Queen, Elton John, all these important moments caught and immortalized – like when Elton first performed Rocket Man, or Queen wrote Radio Gaga. Huge stadiums, tearful reunions and redemptions…. cut to the movie of my life getting the Hollywood treatment.

The only moments I’m able to remember are putting the bins out in my wife’s shoes, or getting into a fight in a pub when I couldn’t find my phone... which I was holding against my head at the time.

The dramatic second half would be my dad forwarding me links to yoga teacher training courses, while I sit wasting my afternoon thinking of what the name of Scrooge McDuck’s rival was in Ducktails. Pausing only to Google Net Doctor to find out which illness I have this week (according to today’s symptoms I’ve either got mumps or am six months pregnant).

Casting wise I don’t want Rami Malek or a doppleganger, no no…give me someone way off base – Denzel Washington, Emma Stone… BABY YODA – to play me. Most likely I’ll end up with the guy that plays shellsuit Bob’s… mate.

Many years ago BBC Ireland wanted to commission a pilot based on some stand up I’d written. I auditioned to play the lead – “Billy”. Yeah, that’s right, I auditioned to play myself. The worst thing is, I didn’t get the part. That’s a surreal call, finding out there is someone out there better at being you than you,

Was I not “Billy” enough? Loud enough? Did I not research myself enough? I mean I thought I knew myself pretty well?

I remember a scene talking about how I was flummoxed by the concept of “Street Angels” in Ireland. Folks that keep the peace, break up fights, make sure folk get home safe. One of the biggest things is giving out flip flops to drunk girls that have lost their shoes. I LOVE that… but it’d totally still work breaking up a fight: “I’ll belt you...”

“Sorry to interrupt, lads, would you like some flip flops”

“What? flip flops ... this is a fight ya mad…. actually, I would like some flip flops”.

Now that’s sorted, better pop down to Costa to see if I can manage an Empire Biscuit without pulling a hamstring.

... Oh GOD, I’ve forgotten to take a change of clothes to nursery!

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