Hiyeeee!!! I’m back. I’m sorry I abandoned you these last two months but it was all getting too much. Or too little depending on how you look at it. (Please don’t look at it – eyes straight ahead). I thought I was strong enough to face the truth, that if I courted it daily, then just maybe I could make peace with the truth; that we’d come to an understanding and that truth and I could even become friends.

But you know what, fuck truth. My little denial holiday has been fantastic. Denial and I held hands on the beach. We made sweet love in the surf. We watched Casino Royale on the hotel movie channel even though I’ve already seen it seven times. But reality calls and alas it was only to be a holiday fling. Now I’m home and the truth can’t be put off any longer. The truth will not be ignored. So here it is: I look bald and I’m no longer attractive. It’s nice seeing you again though. I just wish you could say the same.


Things have been so bad I haven’t had the emotional strength to make myself look in the mirror let alone take a photo. But I had to in this case as I wanted to buy a sweatshirt and my wife has a veto on all of my sartorial choices. Whilst I was waiting for her reply I had no choice but to look at myself. Why do changing rooms insist of having mirrors?

Of course, for women the mantra in similar circumstances is ‘Does my bum look big in this?’ My version is: ‘Does my scalp look bald in this?’ ‘Do these Y-fronts make me look like I have more or less hair?’ ‘Does this wig make me look bald?’ Changing rooms are the worst. Top light, full-length mirrors and you’re trapped in a box. It’s Zero Dark Thirty time. I’d break in a second. Jessica Chastain would just have to take away my Regaine and choppers would be taking off on-target.

I’m trying to avoid writing about my hairline as then I might have to acknowledge how fucked up it’s getting. Its barely there – its like Marty McFly at the end of Back to the Future – fading in and out of reality. Poof- it never existed.

P.S. I wasn’t allowed to buy the jumper. 


This is somewhere between Homer Simpson and a 70’s paedophile. Unfortunately, very unfortunately, I think it’s more the latter. By the way, this was deliberate. It was a prank. Don’t think this is my day-to-day look. My hair was wet from the shower and I thought I’d smear it down. For a joke. Ha Ha. Jesus I look scary. Even my inner child is running away from me. No I don’t want a sweet thank you. Where’s my Mummy? 

Do you think I look more or less bald in Ireland? If it’s the latter I’ll look into moving here.

Do you think I look more or less bald in Ireland? If it’s the latter I’ll look into moving here.


Is this my fault? I was hoping that like a watched kettle never boiling, a watched scalp might never bald but it’s not working. Is this one of those scientific experiments where the observer is having an effect on the outcome? Have I got shy hair? Maybe what I need to start doing is not look at my hair at all. Ever. Go about my life, no Bald Watch, no mirror gazing for hours, no glimpsing walking past reflective shop windows – just total ignoring like my childhood. If I don’t look I’m sure that everything will be fine up there. It’s jut dandy. Fingers in ears - la la-la la-la la la.

It’s cold. No Bald Watch today. Just shrivelled dick watch.

It’s cold. No Bald Watch today. Just shrivelled dick watch.

I’m drunk, I’m on a bus, I’m on my way home, I’m too tired to make much of an effort but I wanted you to know that I’m still going bald.

I’m drunk, I’m on a bus, I’m on my way home, I’m too tired to make much of an effort but I wanted you to know that I’m still going bald.


I was kindly forwarded the top photo today by @duncana_ on twitter. It’s a very funny tattoo. Very funny. It shows that the tattoo’s owner has a good sense of humour and is at ease with him/or herself and their disability.  And yet it depresses me. It falls precisely into the hands of the non-follicly challenged. This is what the fuckers want. They want to force us to to be funny and good-natured about our condition. To give them an excuse to laugh at us. Never with us. But AT us. It is not funny what we are going through. It is not funny what we have to put up with: the hats, the extra sun cream, the other thing I can’t think of right now but should be funnier than the first two if I were adhering to the comedic rule of three. But I would never debase myself in this fashion. A comedy tattoo might help fill the gaping hole on my head, but it would do nothing about the hole in my soul.

P.S. In the photo of me today I think that look like a bit of a twat. I know that you know, but I wanted to let you know that I know.


Arrrrrgh. (Both the pirate and frustrated sounds.) Everyone goes on about what a brave artistic choice Johnny Depp made with his Jack Sparrow character, but to be really courageous he should have gone down his Hunter S. Thompson route. Not in Rum Diary but in Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas where he balded up. But would they ever create an endless slew of worsening films about a bald drunken pirate? No. Balding up is only ever used negatively.

Balding up’s the new blacking up. It’s become the last respectable route to transforming yourself without ‘going too retard’ a la Tropic Thunder. Check out Ryan Gosling in Blue Valentine. A great film but how do we the audience experience his loss of vitality and growing powerlessness in his relationship? He’s balding. Wow – to deliberately take steps to transform oneself from an attractive hunk of masculinity into a pathetic balding man. How brave. How noble. How artistic. It makes me sick. If they really wanted to show Ryan’s character as a lame-o, all they had to do was look to Johnny. Give him dreads.


Give me a break. I needed to get away from it all for a few days: the internet, hair issues, kids. A couple of gigs up north allowed me my escape, but I was mistaken. It was hell. I’d never noticed before but hotel rooms have so many mirrors. Every angle, every part of the room would reflect back the same sorry state of my hairline whilst I was masturbating. Neither is pretty and it made it hard to remain focused. I don’t know how my wife does it.

And now I’m back and this is what I have to contend with as well. What hair I have now, doesn’t even look like it’s my real hair. It’s just been randomly plumped on top. It’s as though for some reason I’m wearing a wig to try and make me look like a balding person. Which is not a bad idea actually. That’s where wig wearers go wrong – too much. Overstated. If I was totally bald I’d wear a wig of a balding guy to throw people off the scent! There’s hope at the end of the rainbow. I’m a genius. It’s good to be back. Even though I’m not allowed to wank. 


With my forehead digitizing out I look like I’m morphing into Max Headroom. Which would be no bad thing – sure I’d stutter a lot and sound like a robot but I’d have a solid quiff. It all looks a bit fuzzy on top today, even without the lack of focus, which is kind of how I like it. There’s the impression of hair, without actually being much in existence. As we know, appearance is much more important than reality. I blame Jersey Shore.

P.S. I was criticised on twitter yesterday for repeatedly wearing the same T-shirt. That’s because most of the time I take these photos either when I wake up or before I got to sleep, and I have two almost identical pink T-shirts I like to sleep in. They both have my name on them from charity gigs I did years ago. Which is why I wear them – ego and giving at same time. To be fair though, I do tend to wear them for weeks on end before switching them for a wash. Also, in all of these photos I’m not wearing any trousers!


This is the best I’ve looked in ten years! This is someone who has hair. It seems stupid now, but if most of what remains of my hair is on the sides and back then only show people the sides and back. When people call my name from across the street I need to walk away immediately, even if I’m meant to be meeting them. Never look people in the eye, always look shifty or preoccupied, having people think I’m rude; it wouldn’t be too much of a shift. It’s going to make it harder to present TV shows and I’ll have to pace more in my stand-up but I think I can do it.

P.S. I’m also pleased with the back of my head. Since I’ve been cutting my own hair when it started leaving me – no one cares like you care – I’ve never known if I was doing the back right. Looks as though I’ve been saving myself a lot of money. 


Still on the toilet. I don’t want you to confuse this with my other blog ‘Around the world in 80 Poos’ but this is where I tend to spend most of my free time, and work time. It’s my womb away from home in my home. With yesterday’s experiment I’ve been in here even longer than usual as there’s been quite a backlog of log to get through. I think overall though I can say the experiment’s been a success. I’m not sure that there’s more hair or anything but I seem to have deflated a bit, meaning the little hair I have left only has to cover a smaller space. So rather than getting hair transplanted in, maybe I should get the scalp taken back. With wrinkles gone and hair moved forward, I’d be receiving two cosmetic surgeries for the price of one. 


Constipation’s a terrible thing. But being a natural hoarder, I’ve had to learn to live with it. But sitting here I just had a terrible thought, what if my constipation is to blame for my losing my hair? All this straining and pushing has to find release somewhere. I think it’s possible that I’ve been squeezing my hair right out of my skull; the loss of hair makes me stressed, which affects my bowels and suddenly I’m stuck in a cycle of squeeze, release, squeeze, release. Is the secret cure to balding in fact laxatives? Come back in an hour or so to find out. 

This is what I look like at work. I’d always hoped that people were laughing with me when I’m on stage. Now I’m not so sure.

This is what I look like at work. I’d always hoped that people were laughing with me when I’m on stage. Now I’m not so sure.