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I turned 33 and I’ve been thinking a great deal about my Dad.

In that respect I like to think of myself as like Jesus.

(In most other respects I’m like a white R. Kelly…although there is this really annoying respect in which I’m like a balding, unemployed Hugh Laurie…but that happens very rarely and only when I’m around hospitals.)

By the time he was my age, Dr. Anthony Fogg FRCS had been married to a beautiful woman for five years. He had an incredible, gifted, intelligent and soon-to-be-sexy son, and he was out at work saving lives every damn night.

In contrast, I think it’s been a big week if I run the dishwasher twice.

Now does that count as an achievement? Definitely. A personal milestone? Possibly. Deserving of Paternal weeping? Hard to go that far. The second load was just a rinse.

From this point on I’m trying a lot harder to make my Dad cry (with joy…the other kind happens one in three times he sees me).

A LIST:

Ways to impress my father and why I can’t do them:

1:      Score a try for Wales:

I love all sport, on one condition: that it’s not Rugby. I would rather play netball than rugby. I’d rather play HANDball than rugby. Frankly, I’d rather play three rounds of “Let’s all scrabble around dirt-punching one another while Fogg curls up and protects his kidneys” than Rugby. At least that way we’d avoid all those pointless lineouts.

And remember, this is the opinion of a man who will watch and enjoy European ten pin Bowling Higlights (Wednesday 3.30AM Sky Sports3.)

2:      Find a super-hot wife:

Until now all my girlfriends have been super-hot. I always exceed expectations in that department. Honestly, you’d be really surprised. I’m surprised. A lot of the time they’re surprised. So the super-hot part I’m good with.

But I have a very poor conversion rate. So far 5 super hot girlfriends, 0 super hot wives. I need to work on my finishing. (and by finishing I mean being an all-round better person/oral sex technique.)

3:      Earn enough to support a family of my own:

I can’t get a real job because I’m special and different and the world needs to hear about it. (Mum said so.)

A SECOND LIST:

Ways to impress my father that I might achieve:

1:      Lottery win passed off as sudden career success.

2:      Thwart terrorist attack.

3:      Change face of professional Golf.

All pretty achievable, so I thought I’d pick one at random to get started. Number 3 came up.

So for the last ten or twelve days I’ve been concentrating on changing the face of professional golf. And I’m happy to report it’s done. It over. Golf will never be the same again…thanks to me.

I’d explain how I’m going to do it but it’s probably easier if you just watch the material I’ve prepared.

Like many great innovators and iconoclasts before me I’ve chosen the medium of ‘party invite’ to launch this idea on the world because frankly, when you feel this idea hit your mind, the party’s already started.

So here it comes, sit back, prepare for the most incredible 65 seconds of your life and if your name happens to be Anthony John Blakely Fogg get ready to weep.

Incredible right? How did I do it? I have no idea. I’m trying to decide if there’s time to get it to the guys at Augusta National before this years Masters starts, because It just seems like such a shame to premier an idea of this size at the USPGA…I mean who watches the USPGA, right?

Fogg till you drop

xx

As you get older you start asking yourself the questions. Questions like:

“What the hell have I been doing for the last fifteen years!? And why isn’t there more proof that I was doing it? Also, What day is it? What year? WHAT YEAR?!”

Strange questions to be asking, right?

Well apart from the ‘what year?’ thing. I always ask myself what year it is. Loudly and in public if possible. Because I believe that everyone should have the opportunity to believe in time travel.

But the first two are definitely suspicious. Because I should know the answers.

How is it I have no memories of great achievements from my twenties? All those incredible things I was planning to do when I was eighteen…Where are they? Where have they gone? Where’s my erotic mental polaroid of my marriage night or that statuette I won for my hilarious-yet-critically-acclaimed debut feature (about a man who takes erotic mental polaroids)? Where are all my senses of achievement?

I came up with two equally plausible explanations as to why I don’t remember my twenties. Either:

a: My life is a classic high-octane memory theft thriller and I’m probably trained as a sudden-strike-deep-cover-assassination-expert who just somehow deep inside ‘knows’ how to work a jetski.

OR

b: None of those things actually happened and I have achieved very little worth remembering as an adult.

I’m pretty certain it’s the jet ski one (a). I know initially it seems less likely but consider this…I am amazing at catching stuff before it hits the kitchen floor. Tins, grapes, forks, other tins…I’ve caught them all. I caught an egg once. AN EGG. Didn’t even think…just went for it. Sudden-Strike style. That’s pretty clear evidence. It’s like one step down from proof. A strong argument, let’s say. The amazing thing is they’ve hidden it from me up till now.

Because there’s really no evidence to suggest I haven’t achieved anything (b). There’s also no evidence to suggest I have achieved anything, but that could be due to the memory theft…

It makes sense. Think about it. If you’re out there stealing memories, you’re looking for the good stuff. The kind where you instantly start smiling while slow-nodding, as you recollect. That’s the kind you could sell. The feeling of getting a promotion, or the sight of parents clapping and wiping away a joyful tear, or anything that includes breasts. And those are the exact memories I’m lacking…

(as far as the breast-memories go I’m using ‘lacking’ to mean ‘would like many more of’)

Memory Thieves don’t want the rest of the stuff. They don’t go after the bitterly disappointing moments. Not if they’re at all competent.

“Shit! I stole another failed threesome? Again!? The head Memory Thief is going to kill me!”

All of which means it’s probably (a). Of course if it does turn out to be (b) and I have achieved nothing as an adult then I’m going to be pretty pissed off…but not nearly as pissed off as my parents. Because they would naturally have expected to raise an achiever. They’re achievers themselves. They like achieving. They’re very positive about it. Particularly Dad.

The good news is I feel like getting older has really given me a sense of drive and focus that I was always lacking.

I’m 33 and I have a new goal…

I feel like I’m really in the zone now…

I actually want to make progress…

I’m going to do anything and everything I can to achieve, to thrive, to get to the next level and mainly to trigger those repressed memories and reclaim my destiny as a man who knows how to kill while skiing.

I’m not joking. Whatever it takes, I’m triggering those memories. I’m just going up to anyone with an eyepatch and shouting stuff like:

“WHO ARE YOU WORKING FOR?!”

It’s awesome! Plus, it turns out the bad guys are either “The marketing department at the Gourmet Burger Kitchen” or “Jesus Christ! Why are you shouting?”

That second one might be like a religious sect or something. And also the police seem to be in on it too. I think maybe they’re working together.

So if you know who I really am then make contact. Unless you think who I really am is a dick, because they sometimes are, aren’t they? People with a lot of achievements. Dicks.

Fogg you tonight (feat. R Kelly)

xx

I recently came up with a sensational idea for a movie.

Now that in itself is not big news. As I’m sure you know I’m currently in possession of over two solid gold, white hot pitches…pitches so incendiary they will burn through the retina of any major film or TV exec causing them to reach for the nearest telephone and yell something like:

“Call this guy Ben Fogg and ask him whether he’d like a three picture development deal and a hot assistant who looks like Aubrey Plaza…plus GET ME AN AMBULANCE! A KEY PART OF MY FACE IS ON FIRE!.”

Notice that, despite being in the process of going blind, his first impulse is to hire me…this guy knows business.

So you’re thinking “Wow! With all that liquid joy in the tank why is he still coming up with stuff?”

Simple answer: options.

Let’s say that the BBC are on the lookout for a comedy about a research physicist who travels back in time and steals his own girlfriend…I’ve got it covered.

What if Paramount are desperate for an ensemble piece where a concert pianist  abandons his family through a portal in a grand piano? All set.

Oh, what’s that? Focus Features are searching for a lo-fi musical-comedy about a reclusive composer writing a naked opera about wild Deer…pass me the phone, I’m about to get hired.

But this new idea…I mean WOW! We’re talking full-fat, hot buttered, melt in the mouth AND the hand entertainment.

I can’t say much because, no matter how honest you think you are, this idea will turn you into a copyright infringer…but I’ll drop the setup on you just to get you bubbling:

There’s this regular guy, 32 years old, self employed, more than a little heroic. He signs up for a medical trial of a radical anti-baldness drug (it’s not like he’s not incredibly attractive with his current hair, he just wants to make sure he stays on top of his game into his forties).  Halfway through the trial, owing to a freak genetic reaction, the drug gives him a superpower. He becomes the most charismatic man in the universe…and kicks crime’s face in.

Now one of the many amazing things about this idea is that part of the story is based in fact.

I have recently become aware that I take a lot of drugs. Not the “Oh my God! look at the curtains…my nose is your nose…it’s like we’re all made of paint!” type of drugs (although mentally nose-swapping can be terrific fun provided all sharp objects have been wrapped in masking tape and everyone is well supervised).

I’m talking about regular everyday drug taking…we’re all doing it. We’re all pouring chemicals we don’t understand into our bodies…and I’m all for it.

Eventually, either accidentally or through a rigorous trial and error process that has so far lasted seven years without yielding any discernible result, someone is going to happen upon a magical combination that unlocks one or more super human powers.

I intend to be that person.

I have made a visual list of the various chemicals I am currently combining so that, if any change does occur, the scientific community will be able to replicate my formula and give whatever gift I discover to mankind:

So far no reaction but you have to stay in the game to come away with the trophy. I haven’t designed the suit I’ll wear but I’m planning for a variety of superpower outcomes. Personally, I’m hoping for a mixture of mind reading and X-ray vision…that way I know what all criminals look like naked, and whether they find me attractive in Lycra…watch out lady evildoers…THE FOGG IS COMING. (catchphrase may need work too).

I keep Fogg-ettin’ things will never be the same again

xx

I’m booking a one way ticket to hell.

I’ll get the return at the other end because I’m not sure how long I’m staying and I might try and catch a lift back with my sister.

Fogg rest you merry gentlemen

xx

If you’re anything like me, you’ll be wondering what I’ve been doing since 11.30 this morning…

Well here comes the answer…step back because this is HUGE.

I’ve been practising raising one eyebrow…that’s RIGHT! It takes time and effort to gain control of your own face, people…just ask Gary Lineker’s forehead.

Raising one eyebrow is the key to a world of comedic gold…it’s a free pass to effortless gentle sarcasm and endearing partial confusion. Once I’ve mastered this I’m going to have the career of a younger hotter Jack Black who met Bill Murray and learned everything he knew and lost four stone and married Zooey Deschanel and got a Krispy Kreme donut named after him.

Only one thing is now holding me back…and that thing is: I can’t do it.

No way. Tried it. Many times. Multiple efforts. Got nowhere. The left side of my face is just pathetic…it does whatever the right side tells it too…it’s so whipped it’s embarrassing.

I’m like: “come on you pussy, think for yourself, make a break, this is your time”

but he’s all like: “I’m not sure…what if I can’t do it…what if people stare at me…”

and I’m like: “BLAM! Take that you weak assed dick-bucket.”

And then I’m all like: “OW! I just punched myself in the temple…I feel woozy…perhaps I better lie down.”

Now I know for some of you it doesn’t seem like work is necessarily getting done, but for those of you who respect the comedic arts you’ll recognise serious endeavour when you hear about it.

Thing is, as always, I have found a way to please, even if it’s not the way you originally anticipated. (For those of you that know me, don’t panic…I’m wearing boxers this time.)

I knew how disappointed all you regular foggblogg readers (hi Josh) would feel when you heard about my eyebrow problems so using the power of my mind (and also a computer) I’ve mocked up what it would look like if I could raise one eyebrow. Feast your faces on this:

I imagine you’re feeling a little surprised, marginally impressed and slightly dismissive of my achievements…

Well keep it to yourselves, because those are the exact sensations I’m unable to facially convey…

I think I’ve done pretty well today, my parents would be proud…what am I talking about? My parents are proud…really proud; they won’t admit they fucked up raising me.

Stay tuned in the coming weeks to see which other facial expressions I’m unable to master…my bet? Humility, Contrition and Condolence will all be comfortably out of my grasp….but just when you’re on the point of thinking ‘this guy is unable to express anything facially,’ I will break out just about the best ‘Oh my God look at the size of those” you have ever seen.

Trust me…I practice.

Fogg the pain away

xx

‘Midnight in Paris’ is

Like eating 3 year old custard; I was initially wary, then surprised at the quality, then sick of how yellow everything was.

6/10

Now a lot of reviewers will stop there…just tell you what they thought and move on…lazy.

I took the time to prove that my review is correct by downloading, cutting and regrading the entire film.

I’ll put a link up tomorrow (and hope for a high profile court case where I get to go fist to fist with Woody Allen).

I’m pretty sure that this style of film reviewing is about to blow up.

Like a great man once said:

“Don’t remonstrate, DEMONSTRATE”

Get the Fogg out of here

xx

Look closely…

See it?

Mickey mouse is in my coffee

I’m starting a religion

Fogg like u mean it

Xx

I am disappointed.

I have just read the review of J M McDonagh’s ‘The Guard’.

It looks a pretty decent film…that’s not why I’m disappointed.

Apparently in this film there is a moment where the lead character drinks a milkshake in one go…that’s why I’m disappointed.

I THOUGHT OF THAT FIRST.

In my (as yet unproduced) masterpiece ‘Milk & Honey’ there is a moment where a character drinks a milkshake in one go. It’s a big moment…it’s a huge milkshake.

Now, whenever any discerning filmgoer sees that scene they’re going to say…

“oh that was reminiscent of the moment in ‘The Guard’ where he drinks the milkshake”

…because discerning filmgoers are pillocks and they like to impress eachother with obscure film trivia.

This will not stand.

Therefore, I want this post to stand as record that I have already had this idea, completely unprompted and in 2006.

Anyone wanting to invest in the project please refrain from seeing ‘The Guard,’ so that when you read the M&H scipt you feel able to say:

“wow that was so refreshingly original…particularly the part with the milkshake.’

The lesson here is to always make your film about a community of Jewish astro-physicists falling in love on a space station as soon as you finish the script.

I will never make that mistake again…

Lesson learned

Fogg like an Egyptian

Xx

Ever single yogurt pot…I’ve hoped for this moment and now all my dreams have come true.

I don’t know how to react…everything changes from here on.

Fogg like you mean it

Xx