Yes yes yes, I've been crap. I know, LOOK stop bugging me about it all four of you! I have been VERY busy, I AM on tour you might remember, I am QUITE often drunk you realise.

Ah well I'm not drunk now (not through lack of trying but there was no one at the pub) BUT I am high on Diet Coke so I thought it was about time I splurged on some wordage and wrote about how many truly mental people there are in Toronto.

To be fair I am coming to you now live and uncut from Winnipeg where I arrived yesterday, and hey, there are some quite mental people here too, but in Toronto I lived between a homeless shelter and a nuthouse, so it was mental-palooza with lashing of spontaneous masturbation and a dribble of drool.

We in New Zealand rarely see people begging for money on the street. Sure it is a starting trend but for the most part anyone sitting on the sidewalk has generally twisted something running or is a home school child playing the piano to raise money to go to the Maths Olympiad.

Living in London I perfected my "sorry" smile and wave when being asked for money, and it got a big workout in Toronto. One man did make me laugh when he enquired; "Can you spare $100.......or maybe just some change" I still didn't give him anything, being a cold hearted bitch, but ahhhhh how we both giggled.

But then there were the just plain crazy, mamma took P when breastfeeding, Daddy hit me in the head with a brick and the state took away my lithium nutjobs EVERYWHERE!

In Starbucks a woman sat innocuously for a few minutes then started screaming, clutching at thin air, frothing at the mouth and going on and on about "McKenzie" being a cunt and how terrible the "niggerzzzzzzzzz, niggerz, niggerz niggerzzzzzz" were. Very Kramer from Seinfeld! (NOTE the N word is in quote marks, I did not say it!)

Then another woman sat next to me on the Street Car just incessantly babbling about "the world, and everyone's in the world and we all have you place and we have to be happy, and help each other and do the right thing in the world............" and just went onnnnnnnnnnn and onnnnnnnnnnnnn like a bad Martha Stewart episode. (Actually just like a Martha Stewart episode, they're all bad.)

When I got a text she leaned into me and said; "What a pretty sound, can you make it do it again, can you, can you, can you?!?!?" So i said; "No" and steadfastly ignored her, being the cold hearted bitch that I am.

One man was on the street dressed in black wizard's clothes ranting at traffic, another danced about outside Second Cup (Canada's Starbucks) and another crazy chick was singing to herself on the street. Oh, no wait.........that was me, but the rest were whack jobs.

The worst and craziest one of all though was the one who sat next to me on the Street Car, then told me she liked my pink eye-shadow, then flashed her badge at me and started talking about Jesus and the message. Totally mental, her badge said something about Latter Day Saints and she reckoned she was a missionary, I mean really, some people.

So yeah, Toronto, it has a Lake, a Tower (that I never went up!), a funky downtown, and a brigade of idiots six skaters short of a hockey team. I did seven shows there and had an OK time, the Fringe is hard and it wasn't the most fun I've had performing, but I stayed with a lovely lady and got a feel for the place.

One woman who often gets felt in the place was the topless chick who interviewed me about the environment on the street for the Naked News. That was a highlight and if you like to watch the NN look out for me. I'm the one staring at the other chick's tits, I mean really, where was I supposed to look!

SO onwards and upwards, Winnipeg here I am, so get off your arse and come and see my HOT PINK BITS!

Well the show is ticking along nicely, BUT it is weird only having done three shows then having two days off, I don't feel I've really sunk my teeth into the Canadian Scene yet. In Edinburgh it's 22 shows in 24 days so that's the complete opposite, this is strangely leisurely by comparison.

Still it means I get to do things like go to the Toronto Beaches on Lake Ontario yesterday with my lovely Billet and snack on Greek Food before wandering along the boardwalk and taking photos of Squirrels. (They're so cuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuute!)

On Monday night I also went to an outdoor poetry event where I wanted to stab out my eyeballs some of it was soooooooooooo fucking boring. One woman made throat noises for 15 minutes, it was apparently "sound" poetry or as I call it utter bollocks. The amazing Shane Koyczan was performing though (refer to Poetry Idol blogs) so was good to see him again. I've shared beers with him now in three different countries, this international itinerant artist stuff is fun.

I am currently avoiding flyering for my 6pm show but it's time I got off my ass and did so, more to come soon. I got a job blogging for CBC (Canadian Broadcasting Corporation) in Winnipeg so will probably post those here as well, so will be much more prolific at least for 10 days or so from next week.

In the mean time here's some Toronto snaps including a rather unfortunately named clothing store on Queen St, hhhmmpphhhhahahaha.

















The Lovely Ruth, My Fabulous Billet

















You Talking to Me?

















All Clothes Sold Here are 100% Machine Washable

Last night at the opening of the fifth season of Hot Pink Bits, and its first outside of New Zealand, something quite remarkable happened.

A man exposed his underpants onstage.

I did encourage him to remove his shoes and just take his trousers off BUT suddenly my audience volunteer stripper got a little shy at that point.

But never mind, he was hands down one of the best strippers I’ve ever seen, and that includes professionally.

He was one of the more enthusiastic members of my audience on my Opening Night here in Canada and today's 12pm on a saturday group were a lot more responsive, but still he flashed his somewhat weedy chest for all to see so he is officially a Hot Pink Bits Legend.

I only hope my 11pm on a Sunday Night of a supposed 35 degree day are still awake, I'm trying to pitch it as a cult event SO we will see what happens!

Fingers Crossed!

Well as I sit here in a towel looking oh so glamorous in a dinky Toronto Apartment right downtown I am coming to realise I am opening a show this Friday. (Not at 8.45 as my website suggests BUT at 7.30 just in case you're coming along!)

I left Auckland on saturday amidst a hail of tears and snot having to leave all my beautiful friends behind for four months, and of course one beautiful friend in particular.

I HATE goodbyes and I thought I'd had enough at Heathrow Terminal Three in the 90's. Back then I had short hair and bad clothes and waved goodbye to a boyfriend and a gaggle of friends through mascara stained eyes, and I thought I wouldn't have to do that again.

But nationalities, Visa issues and an unexpected email back in January from a lovely Brit Fireman conspired against me and so I have leaked on and off since I left thinking of halcyon KareKare days.

BUT enough of the wallowing in self-pity, time to snap out of my oestrogen fuelled depression spiral and start selling my ass on the Toronto Sts. No not for research for my show on Prostitution but rather to get punters to come and see me.

Since I left NZ I have drunk beers on a boat in Marina Del Ray, slurped Frozen Yoghurt on the beach at Playa Del Ray, been to Chocolate Sunday at the Laugh Factory in Hollywood (where I understood 50 % of the African American Themed evening), toasted with Cocoa Brown finalist in America's Got Talent and finally ended up here in T'ronto eh.

And luckily here I'm being billetted with the fabulous Ruth whose apartment is cosy, fully equipped, has a lovely double bed for me in my own room AND a gorgeous rooftop garden!

So I guess it's not all bad, lol.

Today I head off to get a SIM card so I can text everyone at home, try to find a plastic Martini Glass and pick up my 2000 flyers to hand out to anyone I can find. I only hope my Adult Themed Prize packs have arrived from www.fromaphrodite.com and that the cordless microphone turns up at my venue tomorrow.

I also hope all my new Canadian Jokes go down a storm - ie "Have you heard of the great Canadian Porn - Brokeback Mounties (Thanks Dan) and of course the famous Canadian Porn Star - William Shat-in-her. TASTY!

OK people wish me luck, and here's to smiling a bit more frequently too.

HOT PINK BITS - Toronto Fringe
Venue #3 - Theatre Passe-Muraille Mainspace 16 Ryerson Avenue
Fri July 6 @ 7.30PM Sat July 7 @ 12.30pm Sun, July 8 @ 11PM Wed, July 11 @ 6 PM Thu, July 12 @ 8.45 PM Fri, July 13 @ 4.30PM Sat, Jul 14 @ 3.30 PM

















The Laugh Factory
















Cocoa Brown - Finalist in
America's Got Talent

"Do we really need a Penny Ashton shoving Oral Sex down our throats."

Says Disgruntled of Dannevirke after today's Panel on Radio New Zealand National where I was a panellist along with the lovely Jon Bridges.

NOW that is the best quote of my life, apparently I can shove oral sex down a throat through a radio wave.

I am AMAZING.

I'm not going to tell you what it was ALL about, suffice to say it involved virgins, rings, parents, The United Kingdom, chastity pledges, ensuing STD's and how anal sex isn't real sex in the eyes of god.....apparently.

OH and me shoving oral sex down throats.

Hahahahahahahahahahahahaha.............

Good on me I say, the world needs more oral sex, so go on everyone, get out there and shove it.

http://www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/news/uk/article1971097.ece

The weather this weekend in Auckland was, to be quite specific, shit.

When is wasn't raining cats and dogs and Shetland ponies it was blowing Gail through the pohutakawas and even tossing in the odd bit of thunder and lightening to really keep it real.

Those in Canada and Scandinavia (or Queenstown for that matter) might scoff at us quivering in a 12 degree Celsius day but to a Kiwi Girl with scarcely any fat on her bones (mpphhhwwaahahahaha) it was as cold as a look from Megan Alatini.

And I thought it was all absolutely bloody marvellous.

You see I and the "Hot Fireman" (he just loves that nickname by the way) were holed up in a bach nestled in the Waitakere Ranges in picturesque KareKare. We had enough food for a Kirsty Alley relapse, loads of DVD's to argue about (Family Guy was the Winner), sky TV with ALL the channels (though it mainly stayed on E!), a rather large bed for scrabble playing, some alternate board games (I SOOOO won), a guitar AND a fireplace with loads of wood.

See, bliss.

Now some Earth Mother viking mountaineer types might scoff at our lack of physical activity....um let me rephrase that, might scoff at our lack of actually getting our feet muddy out in the wilderness. They might call us poncy townies for never feeling the cool slap of a wet branch on our buttocks or for never appreciating the pungent phlump of a tui's crap on our shoulder. But to them I say "na na na na na", (I never claimed to be mature), because I loved every minute of my indoor hibernation.

I'm about to head off to North America to work my sizeable ass off so 48 hours of doing nothing but eating, drinking and watching Ryan Seacrest was totally choice.

I even went all Alison Holst on it.

Yes I whipped up two rather lovely meals ably assisted by Mr F.Man and we also chowed down on Sticky Date Pudding, chocolate ice-cream, cheese on toast, Corona, Bubbles, Merlot, Pinot Noir, porridge, enchiladas, chips, dip and the odd kiss or two. (I did say sizeable ass didn't I?)

Comfort Food all the way and I was well comforted indeed. I busied myself in the fabulously well equipped kitchen and took pride in going TA-DA as I placed plates in front of my willing assistant.

I mean good grief, you'd think I was destined for this house-wifing lark. But I'd just like to say it was only for a weekend AND if I ever do get married I'm still not changing my name for any MAN!

OK where was I?

Oh yes, back in The Real World and unfortunately no, I don't mean a re-run on MTV, I mean packing up my room, tidying my office and retouching my roots before I jet off. There's a lot to organise before I flash my Hot Pink Bits to North America, but even though it's pissing it down outside, thanks to my willing assistant, I have a rather infectious toasty warm smile on my face.

TA-DAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!

And some snaps of when we finally left................

















Someone put some Sunlight Liquid into Piha Beach!


















I Can Sing a Rainbow was in my head for hours!

NEVER EVER watch Alexander by Oliver Stone.

Apparently the Macedonians had Irish accents didn't ya know.

"OOOOHHHH Darius get away witcha ya grate potaaato heeeead. I'll see ya cavalry and raise ye a nail bomb ah will."

It's arse.

That's it.

Night night.

(Apologies for crap phonetic accent.)

Mastercard Gold Card are a pack of Jerk-Off Twat Burger Butt Munches.

I got one a number of years ago SPECIFICALLY to take advantage of their free travel insurance if you pay for your travel on your card.

I just thought I'd ring before I head off for four months to make sure my spazzy epilepsy and asthma are covered properly.

Imagine my disgusted suprise to find they had changed the policy to say you can only go away for 35 days to have ANY sort of cover. They won't even cover me for the first 35 of my 114 day trip, they just don't cover me at all.

They did a survey and found that most people only go away for under 35 days. AND! So freakin what, I don't give a toss what other people do coz it's all about me so they should do what I want.

I don't care they got a new card to me in London last year withing 20 hours of mine being filched, they're still gob-shite puke swillers.

And to add insult to injury I'll now be paying for my insurance at Columbus Direct with my .... gold card.

AAAAAAAAARRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHH.

That's all, nothing more to say, banks are assholes.

Yes yes yes, I've been dreadfully remiss in my updating of random cerebral leakages and I apologise.

I also apologise for the wank factor in that last sentence.

I also apologise to the person searching for "The Owl and the Pussycat Breasts" who came to this blog. I really can't for the life of me imagine what fetish you have but good luck to you I say.

SO what have I been doing you may ask.

Well as I jet off to Canada in eleven days (EEEK) you would think I would be head down bum up doing publicity, organising shots for Beaver Bites, and learning how to say "Put the hockey puck in yer five hole EH!" (That isn't rude if you're wondering.)

But instead I have been sucked into the vortex that is http://www.facebook.com/.

Facebook for the blissfully uninitiated, is the new Myspace. Myspace for those stuck in early 2006 is a website where old men pretend to be young girls to pick up other young girls. (Oh it's also a very useful marketing and networking website for performers and the like.)

Both sites involve finding friends, asking them to be your friend, then generally mocking them.

The difference is on Myspace the "friends" tend to be people trawling for you to buy their latest ITunes download or hilaaaaarious comedy routine, whereas on Facebook it's usually actual friends you know and aren't trying to sell you anything.

Well so far, I'm sure it's only a matter of time till I'm getting messages from someone wanting to sell me Owl Breasts DVD's but at the moment it's friends having fun swapping pics and telling each other things like:

"Penny is having a cup of coffee and a lie down as she's had enough of work today."

I know, GRIPPING stuff.

I did join some more socially responsible groups today like:

"Abolish Abstinence Only Sex Education" and "Against Gay Marriage? Then don't Get One and Shut the Fuck Up." BUT you can also join such ones as "I Love Spooning" and "I Could Eat a Knob a Day."

I know, MENSA Stuff.

BUT generally it's for wasting time and laughing. Two things I am good at and like rather a lot.

Then combine that with drunken nights out, chatting on MSN, emails and trying to find the perfect romantic hideyhole for a weekend of uninterrupted scrabble playing, and you have a girl looking more and more unprepared for a four month trip away.

Still at least I'm playing a lot of scrabble this weekend with a hot firefighter who I won't see for four months, possibly longer, and frankly I'd rather that than having all my undies ironed.

I'm sure you'll agree.






















My Profile Pic on Facebook. I'm sure my Dad wishes we still wore these so he can tell us apart.

















Half a Hot Fireman, A Whole Drunken Slapper and the Fabulous Noel.

OH and PS if you get onto Facebook don't forget to "poke" someone over and over again, it's too too hilarious.

My parent's house is a mine of wasted time and chocolate biscuits.

I have spent the last four and a half hours watching Wife Swap, E TV's Top 101 Most Outrageous Television Moments, Antiques Roadshow, Parkinson and a soppy Made for TV Movie from 1986.
Genius.

When you jump around onstage for two hours every night entertaining Christchurch Punters at the Harbourlight in Lyttelton, a little me time to watch crap TV is highly appreciated.

The worst thing is it is a beautiful day here and I am wasting by plugging a USB port into my Navel and a TV aerial into my ass. (Metaphorically of course. My parents might get annoyed as to the state of their electrical equipment otherwise.)

BUT OMG, you won't believe what happened in Wife Swap, this woman who we shall call Satan Bitch from Hell, aborted the mission after three days as she found out the other wife had broken up her now husband's first marriage. She accused her of being a marriage wrecking whore biscuit and demanded she leave her nuptial dwellings and EIGHT kids.

Thanks Christ for that the whore thought to herself.

Funny how she was a whore when it was the man who was married, but gosh darn it if some women aren't total sillybillies sometimes.

BUT let's remind ourselves, it's just a TV programme.

HHHHmmmm.

The worst thing about this house though is there is chocolate and jellybeans and chocolate ice-cream and spongy puds and cheese and butter stashed in every nook and cranny. My father merrily ignores his heart condition with wanton abandon and stuffs his face regularly with crap.....so like father like daughter. (Well excepting the heart condition part...hopefully.)

But luckily I'm only home for a week AND i am expending a lot of energy onstage every night so I reckon I'm fine. That's my excuse and I'm sticking to it like Sticky Toffee Pudding.

The shows have been going well, thanks for asking. Well excepting the night when my parents brought along 65 family friends.

Whilst I am immensely grateful to them for being such fabulous parental supporters, and to the friends for giving me their $20, the night was a total nightmare. A whole heap of people of a certain age with a disapproving eye on my subject matter, not laughing at my obviously hilarious self, was, shall we say, fucked.

A friend described it perfectly.

We comedians are addicts. We are addicted to being laughed at and when we don't get out hit we suffer appalling withdrawl. AND I had to drive so I couldn't even substitute laughs with the Methadone that is Beer and Wine. Still I went to a friends house and played a PlayStation Trivial Pursuit Gameshow, so that helped slightly. I even managed to win even though I had the most wrong answers and slowest answer times, crafty wee bitch huh.

The next night though was fabulous and even featured two MP's in my crowd. (Labour of course so things didn't get out of hand.) SO I no longer have the shakes and my bowel movements are back to normal.

Phew.

See you back in Auckland on Monday, then only three weeks to go til Canada!

Somebody recently gave me crap about my Cornish accent. Oi haeppen ta think itz maervelus moiself sew screow yoou. I was regaling him with my fabulous Pirate Poem at the time so now I shall force it on the Hot Pink Massive as well.


Only stipulation is that you must go ARRRRRRRRRRR after each verse as if you were as salty a sea-dog as Lot's Wife. (Wanky obscure Bible Trivia there, hehehe what a tawt.)


OH that's right, I have a fab old column all about Pirates because on September 19th it's
International Talk Like a Pirate Day!


You have to cast your mind back to Don Brash's philandering ways when he had two wenches on the go at once but I'm sure you'll manage.

ARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!


Tuesday is International Talk Like a Pirate Day! AAARRRRRRRRR!

So ye may notice a few words slip past ye salty dogs that wouldn’t make sense any other day but on this day make parrrrrfect sense.

OK, now that we’ve cleared that up…..Why do pirates always carry soap? SO if they get swept away they can wash themselves ashore.

AAAARRRRR-hahahahahahaha

But really I’m wanting to talk politics with ye scurvy ridden parrot lovers. More specifically hideous mental images that are pervading the news and are worse than a syphilitic barnacle on the arse of Mary Louise the fat wench from Upper-Twaddle-on-Rye-Bread.

Personally I don’t give a maggoty rat what politicians do with their pork sausage or Cornish pasties, as long as gays can marry and no one blows their infernal tobaccy in my good eye. But all this reporting of it is turning my gills as green as Black Dog Bitch’s amputated toe.

Speaking of tobaccy why didn’t the pirate smoke? Because he had a patch!

AAAARRRRR-hahahahahahaha

If I have to imagine Captain Don Juan Brash in a clinch with anymore exotic lasses from the East or Mistresses of the Round Table then frankly I’m going to lose my pig intestines braised in rum and Frenchman’s bile on the poop deck faster than you can say “Is that a canon or are you just pleased to see me.”

But what I find most unbelievable about this whole mess of cats guts, is that there are two wenches in the land that want to fire his canon in the first place. I know some say power is the ultimate aphrodisiac, but even if he were clothed in Johhny Depp (AARRRR) I’d still know he was under there and walk the plank rather than show him my treasure chest.

Incidentally did you hear about the Pirate Movie? It was rated…. ARRRRRRR!

AAAARRRRR-hahahahahahaha

Also making me blood curdle is that according to a National MP it’s good Don is rooting about as it means he’s a red blooded male. I’d like to see if he’d say that about a female MP or just call her a harloty jezebel with legs easier to spread than the grease of a spitroasted mongoose. Somehow I think so.

ARRRRRRRRRRR well I guess I shouldn’t be too surprised at Don’s latest affair coz as they say; “When a man marries his mistress, he creates a job vacancy.” I just thought the job market would have been closed for the barnacled baldy and that a comb over, even on a pirate, would only ever attract the likes of Bleeding-Eyes-Bette, who hasn’t seen a thing since the octopus.

Just goes to show, I don’t always know everything, but I do know what Captain Hook died of………..Jock Itch!

AAAARRRRR-hahahahahahaha

The Pirate Poem

I want to be a pirate
And Sail the Seven Seas
And have a name like Black Dog Bitch
And say “A-hoy me hearties”

I want to have a gang
Of fearsome buxom trollops
Who’d cook a mean Cajun stew
With body parts and scallops

For my obnoxious drunk behaviour
I’d finally have an excuse
With a quick grope of the codpiece being
an acceptable way to seduce

But if Roger’s Jolly was crap
If his love techniques stank
There’d be no phoney phone numbers
Just a wee quick walk of the plank

And I’d never have to worry
About being overweight
With a constant diet of tuna and rice
Perfecting my Piece of Eight

My Pirate garb would reek style
Frilled shirt of blood red claret
And every day I’d accessorise
With a different coloured parrot

Then I’d tragically lose one hand
And replace it a hook
Which would mean I’d never lose my keys
Always knowing where to look

I’d be squalid, filthy and coarse
Dirty, nasty, deranged
I’d say the most disgusting things
So I guess there, not much would change

But my skin would always be radiant
A pirate queen sensation
With an endless supply of spirulina
And sea-salt exfoliation

And though in a different form
Men would continue to quest
For the glorious elusive contents of
My Golden Treasure Chest

But I fear I never will be
The Terror of the Pacific
For no matter how good I’d look in the hat
I get catastrophically seasick.


Black Dog Bitch, Jim the Cabin Boy and Captain Bad Wig

A copy of my blog from http://nzbookmonth.co.nz


Poetry Idol

On Friday night on Wellesley St here in Auckland there was nearly a riot.

It was outside the London Bar because there was a gig on that night that proved so popular the Bar was stuffed to capacity before the show started.

Tears were shed, tantrums flung and bribes offered as people were desperate to get inside BUT over 100 people ended up being turned away.

SO what was the gig do you think?

U2, Fat Freddy’s Drop, Robbie Williams, The Wiggles………?

No in fact it was a Performance Poetry gig, namely Poetry Idol.

Usually the only riot poetry causes is when people stampede away from it. In fact people can be so scared of Poetry that they see psychiatrists for their condition, which is clinically known as Metrophobia.

I am not making this up. As if a limerick and a sonnet are going to be lurking behind a bush and jump out and molest you with their evil stanzas. “OOOh watch out the Haiku will get you!”

Yes well, the extreme reaction is rare but most people have probably had a nasty little outbreak of Metrophobia from time to time, mostly prompted by Crap English Teachers/Lecturers.

“Yes but what does it MEAN?” barked at you by pearls and a twinset does little to encourage an interest in words, and by the time I got to English 101 at Canterbury University I found poetry about as interesting as Bob Clarkson.

But then I discovered poetry as performance and it seems the Auckland Massive has as well.

Friday night, to be frank, went off like a bride’s nightie.

The queue to get into the bar extended down the street and when it became evident most would not get in, various poets launched into outdoor impromptu performances to entertain them. Awesome!

Inside every nook and cranny of the Bar was filled with hugely smiling faces as the ten contestants, who had been whittled down from thirty in auditions, took to the floor.

We had old, young, bald, hirsute, clean, filthy, gay, straight, newbies, old hands, crazy and sane, and the audience lapped it all up. One particular highlight was 87 year old Chick Lowson who was there with his cradle-snatching 93yr old wife. When he told me they had gotten married in 1941 my brain kind of shut down. I was impressed with my three year relationship 10 years ago…..I no longer am.

He then sealed the deal with a beautiful poem that expounded the theory that “Love never dies…” And at 66 years of marriage, he’d know.

He didn’t win though, the gorgeous Miriam Barr took out that honour after she sailed through the first two Judged rounds and then snatched the bulk of the audience votes in the tense three way final.

It was an vibrant alive evening of performance poetry presided over by three fabulous judges in Graham Brazier, Jo Randerson and Canada’s inspirational star of the Writers and Readers Festival, Shane Koyczan. This powerhouse performer blew everyone away with his delicious words: “ I want your body to be something that I did wrong, I want you to hold it against me” and “You make mirrors want to grind themselves back down to sand coz they can’t do your reflection justice.”

The evening concluded when second place winner Jesse Jones picked me up onstage to celebrate then promptly dropped me on my ass. ROCK n ROLL man. (Well more bruises and awkward flashes of undies, but it felt very Jack Kerouac to me.)

In short it was s**t hot, words flew, sweat soaked, red wine ran out…. and you’d better get there early next year.
















Packed Crowd of Smiles at the London Bar
















Shane Koyczan

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Well the madness of my Comedy Festival Season is now over and I have a lovely review (see below) and some nicely sold out houses to show for it.

ALSO thanks to D.Vice one lucky punter won a vibrator the size of a very large root vegetable in a raffle. Frankly I'd be a bit scared of it myself, it looks like some sort of engineering burrowing device with a detachable digging implement. Which in a way I guess it kind of is BUT it looks rather like a dalek too......ejaculate....ejaculate, so it's not for the quaint hearted.

A lot of people don't realise the amount of work that goes into producing a festival show, and the competition we locals have in all those fabulous internationals. As a result I work my butt off to get my image plastered all over town, on radio, in magazines and on the tele.

Some call it megalomania, but I prefer the term publicity whore.

As such when TVNZ offered to fly me to Wellington for the day to appear on Good Morning to promote the wondrous Poetry Idol (see below) I jumped at the chance.

The fact it meant a 4.50am start on a day I had a show at 9.45pm in Auckland was a small sticking point but being the whore that I am I laid back and thought of ticket sales as I had a wee snooze-ette on the plane.

I was collected at Welly Airport with Wiremu from NZ Idol fame and whisked off to Purgatory, or as the locals call it Lower Hutt.

There I was powdered, curled and coffeed as I chatted Pase Doble and Foxtrots with old Twinkle Toes himself Brendan Pongia. Wiremu sang beautifully with his sister and then it was bright lights, camera and action and I was chatting Poetry Idol and Hot Pink Bits with Twinkle Toes in front of the nation. Well the Good Morning watching nation anyways.

I ended with my NZ tribute to the Owl and the Pussycat (see below) and got a nice round of applause from the sound operator.

After that fun and shenanigans I was dropped off at my sister's for a chat and an email check before she dropped me into town for more coffee at Fidel's.

From there it was off to Radio NZ for a panel discussion on women in comedy - I would write some material about tampons Simon as long as it was funny. Men talk about their knobs endlessly and get them out onstage and that's supposed to be hilarious but a little menstruation isn't? Screw that.

Or something like that anyway, oh yes and you notice........more whorish behaviour, but with longer skirts.

From there it was off to ooh and ahhh appropriately at my friend's baby. Thankfully it wasn't an ugly child and I didn't have to fake it. Nothing worse then seeing Chucky in a pram and having to stifle a scream as you say; "Oh he's so....... distinctive looking isn't he.....it is a he isn't it?"

Then I called a cab and was whisked off to Wellington airport to board my 4pm flight which was sure to be leaving on time as it was a beautiful clear day.

Or so I thought.

As I sat in the departure lounge noticing my boarding time ticking past and harried Qantas people scurrying about looking perterbed, I suddenly felt an Australia One sinking feeling that I wasn't going anywhere at 4pm.

Then Bing Bong...I'm sorry to announce that Qantas Flight 666 has been delayed for approximately one hour due to engineering difficulties. We say we're sorry for the delay, but in actuality we don't really give a fuck, especially about Penny Ashton who has to be in Auckland tonight for her show.

Then when I heard a customs dude say the same plane hadn't left til 8pm the night before, panic set in. I marched to the ticket desk and demanded to be placed on an Air New Zealand Flight to Auckland, I demanded to be moved to the next Qantas Flight, I demanded they charter a flight, I demanded they just patch the plane up as best they could and risk it, I demanded George Clooney (hell while you're being unreasonable), BUT none of these requests were granted.

It was all fine however as the plane did leave at 5pm along with one back door unable to be opened. Lucky for them I say, I would have slapped their ineptitude all over my publicity whore network and that would've shown em. Mini-shepherd's pie or no mini-shepherd's pie.

In the end I made it home in one piece though and the show went on.

Phew!

SO come and see what my airline fuss was all about in POETRY IDOL!

Poetry Idol is coming live and uncut to the Auckland Writer’s and Reader’s Festival.

(Shane Koyczan)

Held in Auckland’s iconic London Bar, it will star the freshest, most original performance poets in New Zealand. Be witness to their poetic prowess as they battle it out to see who will take home not only the Poetry Idol crown but also $400 in cash and prizes.

And with contestants who range from 20 years old to 84 years young, it promises to be an eventful evening!

A Poetry Slam with a twist, Poetry Idol will pit the performers against each other under the watchful eye of three celebrity judges. After each round the judges will offer advice to the budding bards as to how to improve for their next round BUT those who do not make the grade will be eliminated along the way.

In the end two poets will face off for a final and the entire audience will cast the deciding votes.

Hosted by New Zealand’s leading Performance Poet, Penny Ashton, Poetry Idol promises to be a sizzling night of live literature. Joining her as a guest performer and also as a judge on the night will be Shane Koyczan.

Shane Koyczan has placed in the top 6 of North America Slam Champs every year he has competed. (This competition attracts thousands of competitors.) He is the winner of Canadian Broadcasting Corporation's National Poetry Face Off and recently received the nod for best poetry reading from the Edinburgh Book Festival.

New Zealand’s own Graham Brazier and Jo Randerson will be the other two star-performers and Judges. Graham is a powerhouse performer and the Hello Sailor lead singer is now a beloved NZ icon. Jo Randerson is a young fresh voice in comedy and literature who has been making her mark on the scene for nearly a decade.

(Jo Randerson)

Performance Poetry is a little understood yet highly entertaining genre and it’s time you found out why!
DO NOT BE AFRAID.

POETRY IDOL – Watch as they make it their own, raise the bar and knock your socks off.

London Bar, Cnr Wellesley and Queen St Upstairs, Friday May 25th from 8pm. Be early to make sure of a seat! Only $5 on the door.

Finalists:
Anaise Irvine
David Mailangi
Worzel
Murray Lee
Chris Kirk
Jesse Jones (Johnny Jesus)
Charles Lowson
Miriam Barr
Renee Liang
The Druid of Devonport

The Possum and Ruru

The Ruru and Possum went to sea
In a beautiful tiki green boat
They took some sprite and vegemite
Wrapped up in a five dollar note
Ruru gazed at the Southern Cross above
And sang, like on Ten Guitars
“O lovely Possum! Oh Possum, my love,
What a spunky Possum you are, you are, you are
What a spunky Possum you are.”

Said the Possum to the Ruru “I didn’t know you
Could sing like Te Kanawa sings
Oh let’s tie the knot, but first let us pop
Into Michael Hill for the rings

But alas he was closed, so it was proposed
To sail for a day and a year
And when they arrived, they were surprised
To be met by a rascally Kea
With a ring clutched in his beak, his beak, his beak
With a ring clutched in his beak

Dear Kea are you willing to trade me a dollar for your ring?
Said the Kea “I Will”
So they took them away and were married next day
By a cow from Invercargill

They dined on lamb chunks and pineapple lumps
Which they ate with Mum’s wooden spoon
And snout to beak they danced on the beach
By the light of the silvery moon, the moon, the moon
By the light of the silvery moon

A Ruru Glove Puppet Silly!

My latest review....hurry to book for tonight as Friday and Saturday are sold out! Or come in Christchurch at the Harbourlight! Hooray....

Theatreview Review....

AS INTRIGUING AS IT IS FUNNY

NZ International Comedy Festival
Penny Ashton - Hot Pink Bits


at The Classic Studio, Auckland
Until 19 May 2007
[1 hr]

Reviewed by Sian Robertson, 15 May 2007


Madame Penny welcomes her darling audience into her bawdy, velvety playground to sample delightful vaudevillian songs and fascinating sex facts. It's a history of the sex industry, embellished with theatrical interludes, obscure facts and figures, and audience participation including a pop quiz and a scripted performance from a well known adult film - but don't be afraid, Mistress Hot Pink will never put you on the spot (unless you want her to).

Tackling the entire history of the global sex trade - from the occupational hazards of phone sex to famous porn stars through the ages; from the habits of 5th century empresses to a bit of local history - is such a lot to cram into an hour of comedy she sometimes seems a bit rushed. However, her obvious appetite for the subject matter with all it's thrills and spills, delights and indignities, makes for a sumptuous and carefully selected buffet of juicy material.

This is not just stand-up comedy: Ashton's show is a finely crafted piece of comedic theatre, visually tasty, as intriguing as it is funny, taking us on a unreserved inspection of the evolution of prostitution, the advent of the adult film, the takeover of video and then the internet, etc. Encased in a fabulous pink corset her remarkable lungs hit us with a raunchy, resonant voice and several naughty versions of a few popular songs, such as 'A Few of My Favourite Things'...

It's just really refreshing to see someone having such a ball broaching every imaginable angle of sex-for-sale without a hint of shyness, or resorting crass gags. Obviously the audience weren't that squeamish or they wouldn't have come to an act called Hot Pink Bits, but anyone that was a bit timid at first was put at ease by the end of the show by Ashton's warm, enveloping, gutsy and fun manner.

Despite touching on some of the political aspects of the sex trade, including pointing out a few absurd laws and the obvious gender issues, it's never an excuse for a rant. Our mischievous Madame keeps the tone light, celebratory, and witty, delving into the odder side of our preferences and tendencies with a playful and well-researched abandon.

If you're at all interested in openly and humorously exploring the subject of sex (and let's face it, who isn't a little bit curious about other people's pink bits and what they do with them?) you'll love this show.

My only complaint: the seats in the Classic Studio are a pain in the buttocks so you might want to take a cushion (unless of course, you like a bit of pain with your pleasure). I couldn't help wondering if anyone noticed the Hot Pink Bits audience limping out gingerly, looking like they got a lot more than their money's worth!?

A poem in praise of female assets for Mother's Day...

Women’s Charms

Out breasts
Loud breasts
No sunken shrunken breasts

Kauri breasts
Bonsai breasts
Nature’s variety at her best

Breasts for feminine things
Like clutching in a swoon
Breasts to bring a lover
To serenade me out of tune

Teddy Bear breasts
Jungle gym breasts
Strawberry flavoured milkshake breasts

Lived in breasts
Wizened breasts
Gravity’s won the battle breasts

Breasts with torso attached
A lumpy mattressed bliss
Breasts with nipples attached
That lean towards your kiss

Clamped breasts, plastic breasts
Breasts that will deceive you
Red Cross breasts, Umbrella breasts
Breasts that will relieve you

Women wear their breasts
With style, grace, panache and flair,
And here’s the thing boys, if you’re nice,
We may even let you share.

Guess I better ring her now!













Mum Tolerates a Drunken Hug at Sister's Wedding!

From a review in the Comedy Festival. And people wonder why we feel a little fucked off with attitudes from time to time.

Sometimes it can be hard to find a point of difference between stand-up performers. Until you get a feel for their material, they tend toward an inexpressive sameness in appearance - either slightly overweight guys in t-shirts and jeans, or men in suits.*

*(Female performers are rarely noticed at all but tend toward a 'stroppy' or 'flirty' look, either a bright pink t-shirt or something to accentuate the bust.)

If only it weren't true!

Still if you've got it flaunt it and make it pink I say. I happen to think my breasts aren't too bad so I use them to distract from my ass. So what.

And what is a stroppy look? (Well apart from the one I'm telepathically sending in the writer's direction anyway.) He may as well say we're all sluts who can't get on the TV.

Again I say, if only it weren't true.

But actually, it's not. He's a twat, end of story.

Damn, and he made me angry again.

Last night I stripped off a layer of clothing with an audience and shook it about in the air to the frenetic cry of "Get your tits out, get the troops out, get your tits out, get the troops out..."

Ahhh yes, the comedy festival.

And more than that, Phil Nicol.

If you haven't seen this pint sized Catherine Wheel of outrageous comedic talent with a penchant for getting nude and hitting himself in the head with a microphone, then I suggest you head down to the Classic Comedy Bar at 7pm this week. (321 Queen St)

If you like George Bush, Maeve Binchy and your strongest drug of choice is NutraSweet, then maybe stay at home. (Especially if the idea of Penis Aerobics bothers you.... though no actually it bothers me but I still loved it.)

It's all about a drug induced odyssey of insanity through 4 days in Amsterdam after a fight with his Irish girlfriend and is quite frankly fucking hilarious.
Go there or be square.

That's it, nothing more to see here........I've calmed down.

Phil Nicol wishes Nicky Watson left her Tits in.

Warning - Extreme Anger, Language and National Mockery

I am PISSED off.

Pissed off at toffy nose private school twits (ok ok I went to a private school, but I'm different) who all went off on their OE's to Europe to crusie about on yachts and boff rich nobby twats after they've sunk a tankard of champers and quaffed caviar off someone called Nigel's erect penis with a chihuahua running around yipping like Paris Hilton on speed.

I'm pissed off that this tanned idiotic lot then congregated into groups known as syndicates who preyed on New Zealand's hopeless insecurities as a nation and made us all believe that just because some of us could sail we should all become devoted fans of sweet fuck all happening on the water and it would prove something to the world if we won a race that most Americans haven't even heard of.

I am pissed off we even won this in the first place and had enormous ticker tape parades through NZ's main centres as if these sailing toss pots had done something like cure cancer or invent stilettos that didn't hurt.

We only got excited because we beat Australia, whoop-de-doo.

Then I am pissed off we had to defend this cup (after it had been smashed up by an equally demented hater of Colonial Oppression) and built an entire district in Auckland to cater to an elite group of girls called Shazza and Shaquila who just love to put on their white pants, frosted pink lipstick and head down to the Loaded Hog to be fingered by the cigarette machine. (As in next to it, not actually by it, though that would be entertaining.)

I am pissed off that I face painted in this viaduct wearing overalls in 2000 and that some nasty bitch asked me is I was pregnant. I mean really!

I am pissed of we won again and fuelled this inane sense of divine right to a stupid silver cup and also instilled a sense of expectation that we'll win forever.

I am pissed off with red socks.

I am pissed off that NZ then went on a xenophobic rampage to the soundtrack of a christian fundamentalist and declared any sailor willing to take 11 million dollars to sail for another syndicate a TRAITOR! Funny how no one seems to think Chris Dixon is traitorous, what's the bloody difference?

I am glad we lost, and in spectacular fashion.

AND now I am pissed off that the fucking America's Cup sailing is on when I am trying to earn a living doing social commentary on Breakfast TV and that I keep getting cancelled in favour of watching NOTHING happen in a place with a name that has a lisp and lots of orange juice.

Presumably they put in with their champers to toast their caviar quaffing rich twat chihuahua humping selves.

Now some may say I am being selfish, that many people enjoy the sailing and that many possibly find my inane jokes on the news of the day tiresome and childish.

To them I say, go stick your boat shoes up your port hole and twat off.

SO there.

I feel much better now!

And most Americans still don't know what it is.

HHmmpphh

PS. Come to my show, I promise to be much nicer.

I have a gorgeous friend who last night celebrated her 36th birthday.

We met almost exactly ten years ago amidst a haze of Ouzo fuelled revelry on the Greek Island of Ios.

For those of you who don't know Ios is a kind of floating Sodom and Gomorrah (so had to look that spelling up) in the Adriatic Sea. A Mecca for backpackers who descend on it's white sands and crystal clear waters to drink themselves to oblivion and shag like the overexcited early twenty-somethings they are.

My then boyfriend and I had decided we were going to leave London's dinge and bask in Grecian sunlight whilst working in one of the squillion bars that fought for patronage for the few months of the year that tourists spawned.

We nestled into the local backpackers for a mere 5 quid a night and set about finding employment and learning that the local word for wanker is Malaka. (For some reason everyone wants to teach you that.)

The most common job on offer was the "fish-hook". This is the person who stands outside the bar and says "Come in, you know you want to" to the wildly inebriated antipodeans who stumble passed, tempting them with drink specials that almost always included a shot of Ouzo and the implied possibility of a root from an equally trolleyed punter.

Though this didn't seem a particularly brilliant use of my Bachelor of Arts I thought what the hell and asked at a few bars.

What I hadn't bargained on was the first old man I asked leering at me through herbaceous eyebrows and asking; "Hev you got a short skert to wear?"

Given I was quite a lot fatter at the time and about as likely to wear a mini-skirt as give Prince Charles a blow-job I declined his offer of employ.

I eventually got a job at Cheers, The Little Irish Bar and for two whole nights stood there from 10pm to 4am attempting to entice punters inside.

Then I got paid.

Or should I say then a paltry amount of drachma was dropped into my hands that wouldn't feed Lindsay Lohan.

So I quit and decided to party hardy for a few weeks then head back to London and make some real money. (Well enough to feed Lindsay Lohan AND Calista Flockhart maybe.)

It was then I met my lovely friend who was single, footloose and fancy free. We became drinking buddies over bleary eyed late nights of Heinekens, dancing to Abba (she's obsessed) and lazing about on the beach during the day.

When I recently figured out that that was ten years ago I couldn't believe it BUT then again when I look at her newly renovated home, two kids and husband, I guess I can.

A lot has happened for her in ten years, and me too but I guess I'm still footloose and fancy free with no home or kids. And luckily we're both more than happy with our arrangements.

SO last night even though I was sober (she's lives in the arse end of nowhere) we had a boogie to Dancing Queen for old time's sake and I was briefly transported back to a breezy Adriatic day and the delight of making new friends on the other side of the world.

Wow that sounded a bit like a Malaka huh.