Liam Williams: Capitalism
Invisible Dot, London
06 - 25 Oct & 03 - 08 Nov (Not Sundays)
Buy tickets here
EDINBURGH COMEDY AWARD NOMINEE 2014
EDINBURGH BEST NEWCOMER NOMINEE 2013
“Extraordinary, a shatteringly funny set from a comic who's not ashamed to take the business of being alive seriously.” ***** THE GUARDIAN
“Williams now sounds like the voice of a generation.” **** THE INDEPENDENT
“Liam Williams's exceptional new show, delivered with marvellous moroseness, also fizzes with wit, intelligence and eloquence” **** THE TELEGRAPH
“A clever and unique performer.” **** TIME OUT
“His is a captivating worldview which confronts his audience and the whole notion of stand-up.” **** THE LIST
Tuesday, 9 September 2014
Wednesday, 27 August 2014
Saturday, 2 August 2014
Friday, 6 June 2014
Saturday, 12 April 2014
Tuesday, 25 February 2014
Monday, 17 February 2014
Tuesday, 28 January 2014
Friday, 17 January 2014
Thursday, 9 January 2014
Thursday, 28 November 2013
whatever was on the cover of the maths textbook
whether it was a lake or an apple,
i knew it offered no chance to flirt with mystery
only a mandate to hold mystery down by the throat
while a class mate bludgeoned it repeatedly on the headwith a smooth rock.
Posted by Liam Williams at 12:28
Wednesday, 27 November 2013
Wednesday, 13 November 2013
Wednesday, 9 October 2013
Monday, 2 September 2013
Thursday, 29 August 2013
Sunday, 9 June 2013
Tuesday, 7 February 2012
A Short Story From My New Collection I Want to go on the Internet!
Jevember 2005. I’m an inpatient in Saint Oldname’s asylum, the weird boy’s unit. The building sits like a red-brick cat deep in the English moors, 50 miles from the nearest love. Inside the asylum, the walls talk and the talk walls.
My roomate murmurs away in the corner like an irrelevant radio-play. He’s got a silly boy’s body and a collapsed mind. He told me this morning is name is George, but yesterday it was Harry, before that, Paul, tomorrow it might be Vicar Vance or Rails Modernsmith. It matters not. A rose by any other name will still wilt. My name’s Walden Turnpike, by the way. Least it was, last I checked.
The self-claimed George asks me how I came to be in this white-washed wrong-place which leads me to reflect on how I came to be in this white-washed wrong place. I reflect on the recent past like a smashed mirror giving a warped impression of a lady’s face.
I began to recount the events of the last year succinctly.
Earlier that Narrative...
Snowflakes panicked at being released from the sky and moved vertically and a little bit horizontally too. Reaching the ground, they fell to rest, fucking exhausted from their fall. The blanket of snow was like a blanket of snow, hiding the school grounds and cancelling the hills beyond the fence. It was a melancholy scene and the perfect opening image for this sad story.
I turned from the window, to the flabby chops of Mr Dickhead, the headteacher. His face was a different colour from the white snow, which represented innocence and some other things. Mr Dickhead’s face was structured in such a way that suggested how much of a dickhead he was. ‘Bleugh bleurgh bleurgh’ he said. I wasn’t listening - something about me failing my exams and getting expelled from this expensive school, and maybe something about one of his balls hurting, and me letting down my parents, and it being likely I was going to have an unpleasant life. What did I care? Did you know that nothing actually matters? We’re all gonna be bukkaked with sadness when the banks collapse anyway. It was only 2004, and I was only 16, but I am very prescient so you should value me as a character-narrator. I muttered something intelligent and walked out.
Forty Seconds Later
Back in the dorm, Strongleader was holding up photos he had taken from my drawer. ‘Wook at wittle Walden wiv mummy!’ he said. He had a speech impediment. He presented another one to the baying mob of unpoetic boys. ‘Hey look, it’s Abi Hope, you wuuv her don’t you Walden?’ ‘Shame she don’t wuv you’. Despite his prosodic handicap, it was clear he was mocking me. ‘She wouldn’t stop moaning about you to me during the summer’, he hectored. ‘In fact she does a lot of moaning when we’re together. Have to shut her up with my almost adult-sized dick.’ Abi is the only thing that can catalyse the chemical tank of my inhibited emotions, so to hear her misogynised in this way effected a volatile reaction concordant with the previous metaphor. I flew at Strongleader like a coked-up Wolf, but he served me a clean blow to the chin with a tidy-side of cruel laughter.
One Hour Later...
One hour later, muzzle cleaned of blood, and future cleaned of prospects I boarded the train to London. The sky quickly inked black and blue, and as we bezzed through the pointless county-towns. I thought of all the others like me in these dreary homes - lit against the sky like bourgeois LEDs on a circuit board of guilty privilege - unable to play happy with toys of nothing: MSN messenger, Nokia 3310s, trampolines. It was all bullshit.
I take a taxi-cab from Paddington-railway-train-station, and ask the driver where the ducks go when the lake freezes in Regent’s park. He just scowls and calls me a cunt.
My unclever parents weren’t expecting me home until Wednesday, so with my returned school money, I checked into the Badplace Hotel in Soho, the diseased liver of London, my soul a non-place and my heart beating like a lonely metronome, longing for music.
I sat on the cummy bed, smoking a cigarette like a nasty man, and saw a gang of perverts, fucking about with each other through the window opposite.
A grimy queen giggled like a chaffinch as he rolled on a pair of lady’s nylons, and some bat faced moll wobbled through an appalling strip tease to the delight of six rancid deviants who huddled around her, slugging gin and masturbating one another’s knobs.
I wasn’t disgusted, rather scared and sad, but nonetheless I felt the blood surge in my groin and a sudden protrusion 'tween my groin-flanks, as if I had been fitted with a magnetic baton, positively charged and and pulling me to the negative of the Soho night scene. I had an erection and wanted to use it.
On Berwick street I sneak [your tenses are all over the place - Ed] [fuck you, mate - Liam] into a grotty basement bar, where media types dance ironically. I take a table and am approached first by a panda-eyed blonde in a wine-stained sheer-white blouse, sharking for slurps, and then a tired waiter who takes an order and returns with drinks. There’s a beer, diluted like a toddlers squash, for me, and for her, a double Bells and ginger ale which she employs to numb a pain she’s been carrying round since age 28. She speaks of a failed marriage and a regrettable acting career, then leaves on the arm of an unfeeling Eastern European stud, leaving me to meet the tab.
And then the street again, and a traditional English telephone box, displaying picture postcards advertising love-for-hire. I try calling Abi but her Dad answers and tells me she’s not home. I weep briefly and look at the prozzie-ads. There’s an alabaster skinned model, a two tone-black and white - pale of face, and dark of hair, who reminds me of Abi. My memory media-player streams bleary footage of our first try at love, when Abi lowered herself onto me, slowly and tentatively like a pensioner getting into a hot bath. We shared scared eyes in her girly box room, photos of magazine boys on the walls, and soft-toy reworkings of Disney’s Winnie the Pooh and friends around us on the bed, watching our unimpressive sex act like an ashamed Greek chorus.
In this new Abi’s blood red room, I am ordered to undress by an emaciated coke addict and I shiver and take a long time unlacing my hush puppies. She waits for me to make good on my purchase, but being so young and without Thanatos, I fail and ask to hold her and maybe just talk. She grows mad and I fumble myself into a clothed state, fingering nervously at buttons as I used to in the changing rooms after rugby.
I collect my case from the hotel and check out before Soho ruptures my soul and take a taxi back to the beginning. The meter tallies each damn-dumb minute as we head south and I ask the driver where the ducks in Hyde Park go where the lake freezes. He just scowls and calls me a cunt.
So as not to disturb my parents, I let myself in the back door, and creep through to the living room where my sister is watching a film about American puppet-people going to the dance. ‘Walden!’ she says from her mouth. She is surprised and nearly happy to see me. ‘What are you doing here?’ she asks. I tell her about school, getting expelled, and claim not to care. She accuses me off not liking anything, gives some silly lecture about me being a numbheart and enemy of joy, and I irrelevantly start talking about an old Robert Burns poem Mum taught us when we were little kids. I want to be the ‘Stopper ’mongst the Wheat’ I say and cry like a widow. It’s ‘Catcher in the Rye’ she says. I pretend not to hear and continue saying poetic things. “All these children, all of them getting older and running through the wheat, just running, not knowing where they’re going and they don’t know that there’s a poacher hiding in the wheat, ready to catch them in sacks. Gold sacks. Gold sacks for catching men. Gold man sacks. It’s like a personification of the investment bank, UBS. There’s a man in the wheat, and his name is greed. ‘I’m staying the night and going at dawn’ I upsettingly say. Then I spend a few minutes plugging my iPod into the TV, arseing about with myriad cables, and play Eagle Eye Cherry’s ‘Save Tonight’ as to really up the pathos. We listed to it 10 or 11 times, then go to sleep, in separate beds, both crying pretty hard by now.
In the morning I wake early so as not to disturb my parents and she’s waiting in the kitchen with her pink suitcase. She tells me she wants to come and I don’t say anything.
Then we go to the fair for no reason. She rides on a merry go round and I cry again because it’s very sad.
I can’t actually be arsed to talk about how I ended up in the asylum.
Now, it’s time to close the narrative frame. Back in the asylum, where I currently am, (remember?) I finish my story and notice George has stopped listening. He’s just staring at the wall and imagining something weird in his mad mind.
Being a teenager is very shit; please buy my book.
Posted by Liam Williams at 01:22
Sunday, 8 January 2012
Wednesday, 27 April 2011
Unless you've been trapped down a hole (LIKE THOSE CHILEAN MINERS WERE!!!?) for the last 6 months, you'll know that this coming Friday is no ordinary coming Friday. First of all it's a bank holiday, but I don't imagine many people will be too concerned about not being able to pay a cheque in! That's right, there's a little (that is if you consider a service in Westminster Abbey, some of the most powerful leaders from around the world in attendance and a nation of millions watching on TV sets at home (as well people in countless other countries!) to be little!) wedding taking place in London.
For most people it's a day off work and a way to celebrate everything British (St. George's flags, St. George's hats, the list is endless!), but for any self-respecting satirist such as myself it's an opportunity to take a side-on look at this momentous day. ;)
So here it is - my Royal Wedding Skit. (Just don't tell the Queen!)
Vicar/Priest (at least it's not an Imam. Although the way things are going...): Will you, Catherine, take this man to be your lawful wedded husband?
Kate: I will.
Will: No, I Will. You Kate!
To anybody who finds that offensive or disrespectful then I'm sorry but it's just a joke for God/Allah's sake! If you can't deal with that then I suggest you get off my blog and visit a website more to your tastes, this one perhaps.
Well, whatever you think about the monarchy you have to admit that's it all good fun. From the novelty t-shirts to the novelty jumpers there's plenty to enjoy! I'll be sad when it's all over, to be honest. What have we got to look forward to after that? Well, if William is anything like his father it will be the Royal Divorce (can't imagine people throwing as many street parties for that event.) I don't think we've got anything to worry about. Kate strikes me as the sort of girl who knows how to keep her man wanting more;)
Enjoy the wedding everyone, and to Wills and Kates... have a good honeymoon. I'm sure they will ;)
Posted by Liam Williams at 13:00
Wednesday, 6 April 2011
Just a bit of info about my sketch group 'Sheeps'. This is what most of my focus is on at the moment and it's very pleasant to do. It's me and two of my friends, Daran Johnson and Alastair Roberts. We're going to the Edinburgh Fringe this year (Pleasance Courtyard: 'Hut' - 16:45) and will soon be 'revamping our online and social media presence' (because we're soulless little sketch whores now), but if you want to find out a bit more and come and see us perform soon, then have a look on our Facebook page.
Here is a picture of us looking at a camera:
Posted by Liam Williams at 02:22
Thursday, 31 March 2011
Moloch, I stood all day in a shopping centre.
Clean, ergonomically, psychologically conceited shopping centre.
Moloch, I stood all day in your temple.
I stood and surveyed those who came.
I stood and communed with your worshippers.
Moloch, I asked them why they came to the temple,
And although you paid me to ask them,
You made me richer than you would have wanted.
Moloch, today I stood and understood
Why they came to the shopping centre.
Moloch, I have sat and typed to your worshippers.
Moloch, you have paid me to write the voice of one of your prophets.
And although the voice was weak and few followed,
You have paid me more than you would have wanted.
Moloch, I now understand why they're listening.
Moloch, I understand why they supplicate.
Moloch, I have looked up.
Few look up, but I have looked up and noticed the hose-pipe swinging.
The hose-pipe hanging from the roof of the shopping centre.
And the funnel sitting in the roof.
And your fat and sanguine cheeks stuffed into the funnel.
And felt the breath (borrowed from your priests) sucking up.
Completing surveys with shoppers, I spotted the secret siphon.
Moloch, it is nearly over.
Moloch, we're in the final round.
Moloch, it's nearly over.
Moloch, you're so nearly there.
But, I'm Rocky Balboa, Moloch.
And (ironically) you're Ivan Drago.
And I will simply not go down.
Moloch, it is 1999.
And you are Bayern Munich.
And we are Man Utd.
Moloch, you are leading 1-0.
We're in injury time.
Sheringham (Marx, Lenin, Ginsberg, etc) has been on for ten minutes.
And they've just brought on Solskjaer (me).
You're about to lose.
Tomorrow, I'm going to fill in the surveys with wildly unrealistic answers.
And the right arm triggers back.
And the ball goes out for a corner...
Posted by Liam Williams at 01:49