I keep David Mitchell under my stairs

Stretch and awake!mitchgogan1

Woke up this morning to some great news. Bear Grylls broke his shoulder in Antarctica.  There really seems to be some form of deity out there looking out for ol Stretch.  Now, finish him off.  I think drowning in polar bear shit would be apt and ribticklingly funny.

This all brings to mind David Mitchell and his big Manga Eyes, who for the moment resides in the little room under my stairs.  He sits there all day writing intelligent comedy, listening to Stravinsky and shouting for jam and banana sandwiches.  My dogs are perplexed by this arrangement.  The one who sleeps in the corner next to the door has complained of being awoken by constant phone calls in the middle of the night with Mitchell screaming down the phone at some BBC executive or other.

He does have his uses of course.  We had a few friends over recently and at a time in the evening where the conversation was flagging and the hummus was running low, I opened the door under the stairs and exclaimed,

“Why if it isn’t David Mitchell?”

“Hi, everyone.”

He set the party going with his informed wittiness and I stuck on some early ZZ Top to get the mood down and dirty.  My guests never did realise that the door I opened didn’t lead to the outside world.  Anyway this led to a conversation on eclecticism and I mentioned that I hated the word.  It’s always bandied about when some DJ wants to prove that he has more than one album.   By these terms, the king of eclecticism should really be Larry Gogan, RTE DJ and all round good guy.  The kind of guy you would entrust the disposal of Bear Grylls to.  I remembered how one lunchtime I turned my radio on and this guy played Kylie, U2, Burt Bacharach, Madonna, Metallica and Underworld all in a row. Maybe some people might scoff at that choice, but he isn’t a spring chicken. Well, of course he isn’t, he’s a man.  A lot of DJs, radio or otherwise, wouldn’t have the balls to play the kind of things he does, especially on commercial radio.  Kudos dudo.

At this point the party had gotten rowdy; Mitchell was incessantly trying to release his beast to show a female guest.  Enough was enough, I went to the fridge, grabbed a pound of minced beef and threw it in through the door that leads under the stairs.  Mitchell smelled it, broke from the table, and threw himself through the door screaming,

“Steak Tartare for Dayvid, Steak Tartare for Dayvid!”


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