Hello

Hello there.


Welcome to my blog, "Chris Mayo's Personal Space".


I've finally managed to persuade my lazy self to write something on a regular basis, so here it is. I'm also hoping the blog will play a part in my Edinburgh show next year, but I shan't stress myself out about that just yet.


I wanted to write something as a way of exorcising my anxiety demons (of which I'll speak soon), and to also keep people up to speed on what i'm doing.


To those of you who don't know me, I'm a 22 year old comedian, with the grumpy mind of a 65 year old man and the body of a 12 year old anorexic girl.


I live in Tottenham in North London. It doesn't have a motto, but I think if it did it would be "Where every step is a gamble". It is pretty grim. I live round the corner from Tottenham Football Stadium which is essentially temporary housing for all the things I dislike in life. Sport, dicks and noise. 


I hate noise, which is annoying as it is quite common. Where I live, every day, without fail, someone turns up next door and whistles outside the window to get the attention of the guy on the top floor. We're living in 2009 and people are communicating through fucking whistles. Surely a text message or phone call will do. Fuck it, throw a pebble. There is nothing more piercing to the soul than the sound of off-key repetitive whistling. 


I sit in my room most days, listening to Florence and The Machine or something suitably modern,  grinding my teeth. Occasionally I will slam my window shut in annoyance and look disgruntled. The combination of which apparently has little effect on such noise and acts as some sort of catalyst, sparking further cunt-esque activity. 


The ice cream van comes by everyday. It's 2009 (my new catchphrase) and people are getting ice cream from a fucking musical van. Why is ice cream deemed such a necessity it needs to be transported alone around the country like the Securicor of ice based snacks . Can we not just have a travelling newsagent? Why does ice cream get the glory, and in October? in Tottenham? surely someone should adjust their 5 year business plan, mainly so I can go a day without hearing the tinny clang of the Cornetto song playing out of some pikeys pedo waggon. 


 I live with four other people. Three of whom are nice enough. I had no choice in who I lived with, but I was quite lucky in the fact that they weren't freaks, they weren't people I would ever be friends with, but I say hello to them, we discuss trivial matters in the kitchen, and we are civil to each other. However, flatmate number 4, is what can only be described as a ridiculous penis of a man. So bafflingly bizarre and unpleasant, the sort of man who could drive you to kill. 

 I am not quite sure what he does with his life, but he is a very very odd man. He has a daily ritual of banging around in his room, knocking into the walls, and huffing. I assume it is some sort of exercise or an overly elaborate masturbation routine. I have NEVER seen him eat in the 18 months I have lived with him, he never cleans up, he pisses with the door open, If he comes into the kitchen and you are in there, he will run up the stairs to his room and close himself in. He once let a drunk psycho midget Irish woman into the house, because she followed him home. She then threatened to kill him and we had to call the Police. Oh, and he spits.


 Spitting is my pet hate. In my humble opinion there are only three situations where it is accetable to spit; the dentist, brushing your teeth, and if you are a judge at a masturbation contest and you happen to yawn at the wrong time. Those are the only exceptions.

 It's nearly as bad as farting next to someone in a toilet. I'm not your friend, please don't assume it is acceptable to fart next to me, I feel sick, and I don't even know your name, please stop that.


 So i'm here coiled up in my cosy room, in an otherwise nice flat in an otherwise grotesque neighbourhood. I intend to move somewhere a bit nicer in the New Year, but maybe i'll miss all the frustratingly awful shit. 


 Anger, stress, annoyance, all good launch pads for creativity, that's something I guess. 


I suffer from Generalised Anxiety Disorder as well as Health Anxiety, or Hypochondria 2: Return of The Fear as I like to call it. It's a horrible thing to have to deal with, especially knowing you have to go out and entertain people and make them happy, when you are in the back of your mind worrying that you are dying (health wise that is). Part of the reason I got into comedy and performing was to distract myself from my massive fear of death and being alone. Of course I never tell anyone that, it's all about laughter, sex and being onstage, but ultimately, it takes you away from the stresses of life for an hour or so, like a good film, you get involved in it, enjoy it, and nothing is more comforting to have a room full of people relating to what you have to say and laughing (or you hope).


 I had to take this week off, as I had a serious health scare (at least, in my head I did), waiting for test results had never been so terrifying, staying with my parents back near Portsmouth where I grew up I felt like nothing could hurt me, curled up in bed, too scared to eat, too afraid to talk to friends, while my Mum and Dad said everything would be OK. I've been in this position many times before, but somehow this time felt so much more definite. It turns out I'm totally fine, never have I been so relieved, so grateful of life, friends and family. I actually looked forward to coming home to Captain Cunt and his spitting, the ice cream vans dickish chimes and the yobbish racist cries of the "Yid Army". 


 Few days to catch up on the world now, and plan the next couple of months. Start new "happy pills" tomorrow, so if I spack out and go a bit loopy/miserable/confused/irritable over the next few weeks, apologies in advance.


 Back down to Southampton on Sunday to MC The Nuffield Theatre with the lovely Phil Kay, and then up in Manchester next Tuesday (XS Malarkey), Lancaster University on Thursday and Manchester again Friday doing funny stuff. Maybe I won't do the "you know when you think you're dying of cancer" routine just yet. 


Hope all is well in your world.


Oh and my tips for a good week:
Cherry Lucozade, Richard Pryor's Autobiography, Zombieland and Jaques Mixed Fruit Cider.


Mayo x