Ah Marcy. Marcy, Marcy, Marcy. I warned you. I fucking warned you, so don't dare say I didn't.

This wonderful picture *cough - evidence for blackmail* is of my friend Marc. In this underwear. With his finger in his boxers. The scary thing about this picture, is that I was behind the camera. Also in my underwear. It was one of those, what happened in this room, stays in the room moments.

Life for Marc started out on a small dairy farm in central Luxembourg, where he would frolic gayly in the afternoon sun with his pet duck, spanky. It didn't, of course it didn't. He just tells people it did. You see, this is the kind of person Marc is. He tells people random stuff like that just to make them laugh. He's always been a bit of a comedian. In the same way that Stephen Hawkins has always been a bit of a diva when it comes to parkuor.

I just want to make a not here. From this point on, everything I say is completely factual. I'm not even fucking kidding. Sometimes I wish I was. Because then that would mean that my friendship with Marc was a normal one. It takes writing it all down to realise just what a complete tool/legend he is.

I first met Marc in a branch of Costa Coffee. He was one of the first people I met when I moved to the oh so lovely city of Leicester. Where people greet new members of the community with fists and burning torches. However, Marc didn't have a burning torch. What he did bring with him was a wallet. An empty one.
So, brand new city, brand new friends, on a brand Saturday afternoon. And as you can imagine, this place is PACKED. Not a single fucking place to sit. People have resorted to sitting on each other's laps at this point. Anyway, we all smoke, so we want a seat outside. Marc, maybe with an intention of impressing his new found friend, simple says "I'll sort it" with a glint in his eye, that I would come to learn means that he is about to do something that people get arrested for.
Marc walks outside to a table of two eighty year old ladies sat there chatting away about knitting. Marc stands 2 feet away from them and lets out this impressively deep and loud whale sound, which he maintains for a good 60 seconds. The old women, understandably scared by this maniac that seems to want to ear-rape them, run off. Marc simply sits down, looks at us through the window and gives us the thumbs up.

Holy fuck, I wish this was fiction.

Fast forward a few months. Marc and I are fond friends. I mean, how the fuck are you not going to be friends with someone who makes that much effort?
Quite shortly after the above picture (evidence) was taken, Marc is laying on the floor of my bedroom chatting away to his then girlfriend. The conversation has ended, and they start doing that annoying "no you hang up" thing. I really want to punch people who do that. It's a fucking phone call. One of you just hang the fucking thing up. So this has now been going on for a good 5 minutes and I'm getting annoyed. So I creep over, straddle the back of his head, and let out a little windy-pop. As far as I can tell, he hasn't spoken to her since.
A bit harsh, you might say, but at least it ended the fucking phone call though.

One more story for the road I hear you say? Ah, well, you've twisted my arm.

The scene, a cancer benefit gig. One of our Chase the Season gigs in fact. This place is full. Full of people there supporting the cause, people who have had cancer, people who have cancer, and people who know people who have cancer. It's an incredibly emotional place, full of people telling their gut-wrenching stories of survival and loses. Marc, at this point, has decided, quite rightly I might add, that he'd like to be part of the stand-up scene, and so, we ask him if he'd like to be our support at the gig.
Maybe we should have realised what was coming.
About 20 minutes into his set, Marc sees a bloke standing at the front of the crowd, with a bald head (for obvious reasons).
Marc says, bold as brass. "alright Lex Luthor? How's that battle with Superman going"?
Wow, that's about a close to the knuckle as it gets. I'll never forget that moment. It. Was. Epic.

Listen, the way I've painted it, is that Marc is a reckless, penniless hillbilly with less brain cells that one of Kerry Katona's breasts.
In truth, I have never seen someone with more to be proud of than Marc. Never has someone been so low on lives imaginary ladder, only to turn it all around. And the best thing? He has no one to thank for it but himself.
Yes, he can be annoying, mental, a little tapped, stupid, no common sense at times, but fuck me, I'm proud of him.

I know that this hasn't been as funny as my last few posts, but this has been more of an honour for one of my dear friends. Anyway, I'm not the dick reading this shit, I just write it.