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I Don't Get Out Much

4/23/202626 min

Shopping for sheets, dancing in the street and being called Bill are just some of the matters addressed in this episode.

This episode's playlist is called 'It's ok, I Caught Up On Emails' and includes:

  • ‘Logic Bitch’ by Self Esteem
  • ‘Blue Randy’ by Beck
  • ‘My Favorite Picture of You’ by Guy Clark
  • ‘Galveston’ by Craig Finn
  • ‘Hurt Me So Good’ by Jazmine Sullivan
  • ‘Outside Your Door’ by Meshelle Ndegeocello

You can find a link to the playlist on Spotify here

And on Apple Music here

The book of the episode is 'Romantic Comedy' by Curtis Sittenfeld

We'd love to hear from you - you can email us here - (contactus@ill-advisedbybillnighy.com) or send us a message via instagram here

Keep your questions, regrettable band names, lyrics and banned words coming.


Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

Clips

Transcript preview

First 90 seconds
  1. Bill Nighy· Host0:00

    [upbeat music] Good morning, good afternoon, or good evening, depending on where you are on the planet. This is Ill Advised by Bill Nighy, and I am Bill Nighy, and I'm here to answer your questions without actually making things worse. And it's a great day in London Town. Spring has finally arrived, and it's a great day to give up smoking. It's a refuge here for the clumsy and the awkward, and if you're socially adept and enjoy healthy relationships, there's nothing for you here. If you enjoy dinner parties and are good in bed, there's nothing for you here. If you wear shorts to the theater, there is nothing for you here. If you do wear shorts to the theater, at least don't sit in the front row, particularly if I'm in the show. I was once in a show with Anthony Hopkins playing his Australian sidekick to his South African tycoon, who was relaxing in his fabulous home in Weybridge in a kimono practicing a fictional martial art called Toyinka, which involved a six-foot bamboo cane, which he would swing violently around and bring it down sharply, mouthing impenetrable Japanese grunts. And there was a young man in the Olivier Theatre at the National Theatre in London who not only wore shorts

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