Eat Your Heart Will Smith – I Definitely Did Stuart Lee

ΤThe inspirational Leicester Comedy Festival’s awards ceremony, which I attended Monday in the ballroom of the renovated Mercure Leicester Grand listed in Grade II, could only have been better if one multimillionaire had effectively punched another multimillionaire. Nevertheless, my victory in the Legend of Comedy statuette that once in my life was overshadowed by the violent controversy of the Oscars, which means that my achievement was not reported in all major American commercial entertainment newspapers. Nah!

It was almost a very different story. While the other Leicester winners and I posed for our photos, I almost went backwards from the 18-inch podium, losing one of my headphones for a while as it fell out of my ear. That should be one of them Lester MercuryThe biggest stories of the year, which undoubtedly went viral and helped me sell so many tour tickets, which with a punch to the face have changed for Chris Rock. But in the aftermath of the mouthgate, no one cared.

I can honestly say that, of the many that I have been required to attend professionally, the Leicester Comedy Festival’s awards ceremony was the only one I ever enjoyed. It was definitely better than the 2011 Baftas, where Michael McIntyre’s famous enthusiastic manager put me in a dark corner and said he would personally ruin my career while his own mind struggled to free me from his employer. drowning. To this day, I have a psychosomatic reaction to the very mention of McIntyre’s name that leaves me breathless. Or is it an allergy to nuts?

I think the awards night seemed great to me because the Leicester Comedy Festival itself is uncharacteristically and inherently remarkable and is not based solely on the sale of drinks and the bribery of executives. The awards shared reflected her commitment to encouraging new talent and building a cultural profile for the unjustly neglected Leicester, formerly known only as the home of the fattest man in the world, Daniel Lambert. The huge cockfighter managed to reach the weight of the 53rd in 1805. Seeing his portrait in Leicester as a child and realizing the sacrifices he had made to become a legend, inspired me to follow my dreams. I wore my Daniel Lambert pin badge as I received my Legend Award and considered my debt to him payable. The middle phase of my career is now officially over and I am in the third and final act of the “legend”, a clear downhill with bobsling to the premature grave and the subsequent critical reassessment.

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Today, it has become imperative for most awards ceremonies, from the Oscars to the so-called British Comedy Awards this year, to be hosted with the brazen contempt of a Friars Club bake with cocaine by a conscientious objector. comedian profile for rent. Is it because even the people who compose the facts suspect, deep down, that both the artists and the works they are supposed to recognize are probably not so great after all? An Oscar tradition that in recent years has found no place for Paddy Considine, Mark Jenkin Bait or mine King Rocker, however it rewards violent hooliganism and The Crazy Professoris proven to be useless.

Rock is one of the biggest standups in the world and his 1996 routine on black community perception of himself is in the top 10 of all time. The Oscars are honestly down to him and they should have just let Ricky Gervais do it again, as he has no dignity to lose. Rock would not be hosting a corporate Christmas concert for a logistics company and would agree to mention the CEO’s wig and the time when Sally was sick of bills in a flowerpot, so why prostitute herself in the same way at the Academy? Rock brings shame to the nobility of the standup profession.

Most of Rock’s put-downs would have been prepared anyway, created by employees in a packed Hollywood writing room, and which the Academy, desperate for publicity, had already approved and signed. Hiring the controversial comedian is a risk that is cynically calculated to drive traffic. Do not shoot the messenger. If Will Smith had blown up and punched the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences president, David Rubin, loudly in his stupid face in Hollywood, I would have respected him more. Rock was just the arm. Smith’s punches, justified or not, fell far from the target.

Jada Pinkett Smith’s position on her husband’s knightly hitting Rock’s little face was not mentioned. In 1987, an observant builder overly praised the figure of my feminist girlfriend without uncertainty and my 11th, 19-year-old frame immediately fell into battle as my fellow builders theatrically held their colleague. My girlfriend immediately scolded me for sexism, as it was not for me to fight with another man for her. Today, my feminist wife tells me that, although my girlfriend’s criticisms were correct, I too would have looked lost if I had not reacted. It was a loss-making situation. The maker, unlike Rock, made at least his own material and may come out a winner here.

The Smith Awards night ended with violence, disciplinary action and the threat of expulsion. Mine ended with Guinness, Highland Park and the strange, locally special choice I can not resist, in a stained glass bar full of live local artists and standups, which is bound to delight my memories of the pre- podcasting cultural landscape. For once in my life, in this dirty work, I felt like I was coming forward. Back in my hotel room, I realized I had spilled mango dip from some poppadom snacks on my awards ceremony shirt, but my hosts were respectful enough to ignore it. I was now officially a legend, even with all the chutney on me. And I would not have exchanged views with Will Smith on the world.

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