Scotland’s Jesus: The Only Officially Non-racist Comedian

by Frankie Boyle

  One Direction played Madison Square Garden (a venue that’s hosted Led Zeppelin, The Who and The Rolling Stones). It’s surely the musical equivalent of racing pigs in a synagogue. Their luck, fame and lack of talent don’t upset me, provided I can convince myself I’m actually just lying in a darkened room somewhere experiencing a Total Recall-style implant installed by my nemesis.

  One Direction’s predecessors JLS split up. I immediately set up a helpline – it gives out suggestions of how we can get rid of other shit bands. JLS explained they wanted to go out on a high. But I guess they just got fed up waiting, so decided to split anyway. They’ve said they’ll only be seen together now for charity events. In which case I’m sure I can rustle up fifty quid for them to appear on Comic Relief as a human centipede.

  JLS broke the mould for boy bands with a radical, fresh approach that saw just three of them wear hats. Marvin said, ‘We don’t want to be that band that people get fed up of.’ It’s a pity they didn’t feel that way five years ago. People mocked them and said they would never achieve anything in music but they went on to prove all the doubters correct. Britain’s music industry won’t be the same without them. It’ll be slightly better.

  Let’s not forget that in 2010 their music brought a teenager out of a coma. Though sadly she couldn’t reach the CD player off-switch so went for the one on her life support instead. JLS say they’re going to work on solo projects. Why don’t boy bands ever come up with something more interesting to do after they split? For once, at the press conference I’d like one of them to announce that he’s going to spend a lot more of his time doing ad hoc medical experiments on himself, before slipping his T-shirt off to reveal his back is covered in ears.

  Talking about a medical experiment, Jordan spoke at the University of Oxford, summarising her life and career in less than eight minutes. Which may sound short, but actually it’s rather impressive as I know I could summarise her life and career in one word. But it would be a word so filled with sorrow and pain it would be like the noise a mermaid makes when it’s been harpooned through the heart by a Japanese whaler. She joked that she ‘wouldn’t want to play Trivial Pursuit with any of you’. I’d love to see it happen. It’d be like watching the supercomputer Big Blue play chess against a fridge freezer.

  I’m not sure if you caught Jordan’s last show, Signed by Katie Price. It’s already been sold abroad and Al-Qaeda want it as their next promotional video. The show was her biggest on-screen flop since the stitching on her left tit gave way while she was recording an exercise video. The episode I saw was a cross between a Robocop insert and the images that would flood your mind if a vampire bit you in the forehead.

  Katie Price got married again, this time to a male stripper. He’s also a builder, which will be handy in a couple of years when her tits need scaffolding. New hubby Kieran looked de-lighted, his only moment of doubt coming when Katie caught her own bouquet. At least she’s finally found a partner who can stand up to her. If there’s one sort of man that won’t let a woman tell them what to do it’s a stripper. She even chose the wedding cake that he jumped out of. She wants to give her kids a bit of stability by having a new father for the next six months.

  I know he wanted to make an honest woman of her but considering the amount of rubber, silicon and plastic in her body a more honest woman could be created by drawing a smiley face on to a filing cabinet. They say he didn’t stay down on one knee for long, as he was unnerved by the voice emanating from her knickers, growling ‘feed me souls’ like a haunted mirror in a Hammer film. Hopefully, their combined IQ might be just large enough to outsmart the yeast infection in danger of taking control of her cerebral cortex.

  The ceremony took place in the Bahamas, Katie’s favourite holiday destination; she often pops over for a week or two to let her tan fade. There were only six guests this time, pres-umably as it’ll be less hassle sending the presents back. Katie said the decision to marry Kieran was a no-brainer. I think I’d already worked that one out for myself.

  She wanted the wedding to be classy, which wasn’t easy when she’d invited herself. She could have hired the Ritz for her reception but as soon as she stepped in it would have felt like a Chicken Cottage.

  Katie says staff at the resort where she married asked her if she was a porn star. Nope. Just a keen amateur. Honestly, the vulgar assumptions people make just because you’ve been fitted with a giant pair of plastic tits. She slammed the atmosphere at the Sandals resort as being like a Club 18-30 holiday. To be fair, it couldn’t have been. Or she’d have been asked to leave when they saw the date of birth on her passport. She also complained that their sun-loungers were plastic. I can see how that would have been upsetting – for her new husband to look at her and not know where the lounger stopped and she began. Every time Katie has sex she must think men can’t get enough of her body as they run their hands all over her. What she fails to understand is that it’s just a reflex action and they’re simply looking for the nozzle to deflate her.

  Katie Price wannabe Jodie Marsh is still appearing everywhere. I’m not sure what she’s promoting, but from the look of her it’s homosexuality. She looks like a hilarious mix-up in a toy factory in which Barbie’s head has been chewed by a dog before being accidentally placed on Action Man’s body. It looks like in less than two months she has gone from a size ten, to a complete mental breakdown. She’s been spending five hours a day working out in the gym and three hours a day standing in a garden being creosoted.

  Jodie Marsh launched a slimming pill called Semtex, causing outrage among families of IRA victims. Her shameless lack of tact has really blown up in her face this time. The pill helps you lose weight by making you get down on your knees every five minutes to check under your car.

  Jodie was voted the 32nd best bum in the United Kingdom. Which sounds disappointing until you realise that her tits came 145,877 and her face didn’t even meet the entry standard. Jodie says she loves her body and would run naked through a crowded street if you asked her to. I’m asking. But I’m adding one stipulation: the street must be in Tehran.

  What is it with these celebrities’ obsession with plastic surgery? There’s something at once very morbid and childlike in knowing that Death is coming, but thinking that he won’t recognise you in your little plastic mask.

  Amy Childs has had her second boob job to enhance her breasts from a 32C to a 32DD. Getting a tit wank from Amy Childs must be like sticking your knob between the tyres of a stationary HGV. Meanwhile, Gwyneth Paltrow has been having injections of bee venom and reckons she no longer notices the pain of an old injury . . . thanks to the pain of hundreds of bee stings.

  Her pal Madonna’s carcass looks like something you’d boil up to make soup. I’ll bet her bathwater tastes delicious. She appears to have had some dodgy Botox. They’ve had to update her waxwork in Madame Tussauds by giving it a right-hook, left-cross combination. I’m not saying Madge has lost her looks but I confess some sperm I ejaculated watching the video for ‘Like a Virgin’ in the 80s has just found its way back under my front door and crawled back down my urethra.

  Victoria Beckham’s been having sheep-placenta gel massaged into her face. If £500 million in the bank isn’t enough to enable her to crack a smile I doubt smearing afterbirth on her face is going to. Easy to mock, but I’ve done similar myself. A last-minute fancy-dress invite found me with only lamb chops in the fridge, so I had to go as Noddy Holder.

  Beyoncé had a baby by elective caesarean, of course. Many celebrities are so desperate to avoid a visible scar that surgeons now make the incision beneath the armpit, then massage the baby round . . . I’m told it’s a bit like trying to get a cat out of a duvet cover. Beyoncé cleverly kept a low profile by checking in under the name Ingrid Jackson. So when anyone asked, ‘Who’s just paid $1 million to rent the entire floor of the hospital?’ the answer was, ‘Oh, just that plain old Ingrid Jackson that Jay-Z keeps visiting.’

  You don’t need to spend that much to get a bit
of space in a maternity ward. Do what I did, and check your partner in as Maxine Carr. Beyoncé said of motherhood, ‘I actually feel like my child introduced me to myself.’ Luckily for her she’s a multi-millionaire celebrity. If she were a single mum living in a council flat she could have her kid taken off her for less than that.

  Beyoncé and Jay-Z are spending $1 million a year renting out a nursery for their daughter at a basketball stadium. When I was a kid my parents spent some money on a nursery for me to sit in while they were busy. We called it ‘the car’.

  Beyoncé is going to be the new face of Pepsi. And by face, they mean arse. Someone needs to remind Pepsi that they can pay £30 million for a superstar to advertise their product but the advert might as well say, ‘What? They don’t have Coke? OK then, if there’s no Lilt then I suppose I’ll have a Pepsi.’

  • • •

  Michael Jackson’s family are accusing concert promoters AEG of only caring about money, by launching a $40 billion lawsuit against them. They’re saying the promoters forced Jacko to perform, which then led to his death. Unlike Jacko’s family, as when they forced him to perform it only led to an emotionally stunted, self-loathing, body-dysmorphic, drugged, addicted man-child who sought escapism in the company of children and monkeys. They say that the jury will see some ugly stuff – they’re not kidding. The rest of the Jacksons look like Halloween on the burns unit. Katherine Jackson says she didn’t want AEG to force Jacko into performing when it could have damaged his health – she’d have rather they’d used one of the more disposable members of the family, like Jermaine.

  AEG claim that Jacko was keeping his health problems a secret. A secret? Well, hardly – he looked like something you’d pass on a ghost train. If AEG lose the case they’ll have to pay out $40 billion – what can they put on to raise that sort of cash? I’m guessing they’re trying to work out if some jump leads will reanimate Jacko’s corpse. Courtroom details are sketchy but there were claims AEG responded to rumours of Jacko’s fits and rampant pill-popping by cynically suggesting more maraca solos. Jacko was given very strong drugs to help him sleep – to be fair, if every time I closed my eyes I could see Macaulay Culkin doing that screaming face I’d need an anaesthetic as well.

  His children say Jacko did everything he could to give them a normal childhood – and speaking as someone who grew up on a merry-go-round with a baboon as a wet nurse I think he did a great job of it. It’ll be interesting to see if the kids display any of Jacko’s personality traits – you know, his little foibles like living on a rollercoaster and being best friends with a circus.

  Former Oliver! star Mark Lester claimed he’s the father of Jacko’s daughter Paris. If Mark is the father it could be a chance for the kids to lead a more normal life – and it’s coming to something when moving in with a grown-up Oliver Twist on the other side of the world is ‘more normal’. This sort of attention isn’t good for kids – or anybody – and it was no surprise to see our easily outraged tabloids using a kid’s suicide in an attempt to sell copies.

  Meanwhile, Justin Bieber’s increasingly bizarre behaviour has worried some that he might be turning into the new Jacko. He’s even building a zoo. Hopefully, he won’t use the zoo to indulge his sick urges. Apparently, Jacko would often coat his buttocks in sand, before inverting himself and getting his butler to startle the ostriches. Still, the man’s dead. We should remember him in happier times: dangling a baby out of a window perhaps, or sharing a bed with three nine-year-olds while a bemused Liz Taylor scraped up llama turds with a gold disc.

  Bieber failed to collect his pet monkey from quarantine so he’s gone to a zoo. It’s the best place for him. Whereas the best place for the monkey would be back in the jungle. I hope that ten years from now a giant silverback gorilla turns up at Bieber’s door and says, ‘Why did you leave me, Daddy?’ before ripping his face off. And for anyone who’s thinking ‘Monkeys don’t grow into gorillas’, may I just point out they can’t work doorbells, either.

  Justin Bieber left a message in the visitors’ book at Anne Frank’s house hoping that if Anne were alive she would be a fan of his. If Anne Frank were alive she’d be eighty-four years old. She’d much more likely be targeted by Harry from One Direction.

  Bieber was caught on camera spitting off a balcony as a crowd of fans gathered below. It’s not the first time he’s treated his fans with utter disdain, as there’s also his music. He’s a multi-millionaire who turned nineteen earlier this year – of course he acts badly. It’s not going to be a tremendous shock when he turns into a transsexual antiques expert.

  • • •

  I agree with Michael Douglas. The only way to promote your biopic of a gay icon is to say ‘I ate so much pussy I got cancer.’ Turns out Douglas only smoked to get the taste of pussy out of his mouth. I’m worried that these revelations mean they’re going to ban cunnilingus in pubs. Thing is, if we found out that all cancer was caused by oral sex we’d still have to find a cure for cancer.

  We mustn’t overreact. I’d suggest compulsory testing, and anyone who comes up positive just gets their pubes shaved into a skull and crossbones. Michael does less of that sort of thing now as he often finds himself coming up again unsure what he went down for in the first place. His cunnilingus habit was actually a side effect of his excessive sex drive – his penis had become so exhausted that at the mere hint of an available woman it would bury its head in his scrotum in the manner of a sleeping swan.

  Michael Douglas and Catherine Zeta-Jones are taking ‘time apart to work on their marriage’. That’s like saying they’re ‘staying together to explore themselves as individuals’. It’s not easy making relationships with a 25-year age gap work. It must be hard for a couple to grow old together when one has such a big head start.

  Keith Richards simply can’t die. He’s a genuine, living, pickled-and-preserved icon, talking and walking around like a sun-scorched, partially concussed half-man, with the ubiquitous Marlboro Light held in a claw-like, static, paralysed hand. A truly terrible hand. A hand that resembles an ancient, leathery, malformed foetus dry-cured in sea salt and malt vinegar.

  Keith says he intimidates his daughter’s boyfriends by showing them tricks with knives. Bear in mind this is a man so off his face I’d feel intimidated standing near him while he held a hot cup of tea. His best knife trick is when he drinks a litre of Southern Comfort, and then falls face first into the cutlery drawer and manages to come up with just a teaspoon jammed into his eye socket.

  Brave Angelina Jolie says her double mastectomy has brought her closer to husband Brad Pitt. By my calculations, 3.86 inches closer (granted, my model’s not 100 per cent accurate – there’s only so much data you can retrieve from mattress plaster casts taken after sneaking into recently vacated hotel rooms). Angelina added she doesn’t want more kids. Causing jubilation across rural Cambodia, where many parents guard their huts by hanging a carving of Jennifer Aniston above the door. An impossibly sexy woman – who campaigns against war, between playing gun-toting assassins – had her breasts cut off and re-sculpted to save her own life from cancer. If her next press release could be instructions on exactly what we’re allowed to masturbate about from now on, that would be very helpful, ta.

  Chris Brown said in an interview that after fifty-two weeks of counselling he learned that punching a woman in the face ‘is absolutely wrong’. Well done, Chris. Give yourself a peanut. Chris got a tattoo of a beaten-up woman on his neck. Contrary to what people think, it isn’t a tattoo from when he beat up Rihanna – it’s a flash-forward to when he kills her. What better place for your ‘To do’ list than on your neck. He doesn’t need a tattoo to remind himself of what he did. That’s what Twitter’s for.

  Rihanna said she can turn straight women bisexual, which I’m pretty sure was also an early advertising slogan for Lambrini. Megan Fox says her first love was a teenage lesbian stripper who broke her heart. I think she broke mine, too. Either that, or it turned me on so much I tried to grow a breast. She
’s having her tattoo of Marilyn Monroe removed as she says it draws negative comments. No, Megan. You misunderstand. It’s your whole being that reminds people of the death of Hollywood.

  Lady Gaga has given her boyfriend a scrapbook to remind him of her whenever they’re apart. Surely he’s reminded of her every time he looks at some raw meat, a pile of bandages or his own dick. Meanwhile, Jennifer Lopez’s new lover says she has the body of a woman half her age. Though it seems that so far she’s only harvested its hair and buttocks.

  Why is there so much coverage of the United States over here? Most Americans struggle to recognise us on a map. Or a battlefield. Of course, the real reason that the United States is such a horror story is that they built it on top of an Indian graveyard.

  Naomi Campbell advertised for a new personal assistant. Responsibilities included dry cleaning, managing her diary and dressing as a giant sycophantic talking mirror. Supermodels can be so contrary to their assistants. One minute it’s ‘You make me sick!’; the next it’s ‘You! Make me sick!’

  Kelly Brook is stunned that women have sent her boyfriend Danny Cipriani sexy pictures and dirty messages. Danny is now in therapy trying to work out why he’d think looking at scantily clad women was OK while he was going out with an underwear model. I hope Sigmund Freud is available, as this one’s going to take minutes. Kelly assumed that Danny had been shagging all the women he texted, showing the quaint understanding of modern life that your mum shows when she asks if you can hear her talking into her email. Kelly’s a loyal girlfriend – she managed to stay with Jason Statham for seven years. I can’t get through a title sequence of his films without wanting to walk out on the whole of humanity. Danny’s friends claim he was bored with the relationship. Well, she would keep banging on about Syria. Why would a rugby player be so promiscuous? It’s probably the inevitable subliminal effect of spending your working day chasing a giant egg.