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

by Frankie Boyle

  Theresa May introduced new crime prevention injunctions, which means violent thugs can get punished without being given criminal records. A bad move, as bouncers are going to have nothing to put on their CVs. The Tories also announced that we can now beat up burglars. Thank God! I can finally let that poor man out of my basement and give him the kicking he deserves. But the Tories are yet to clarify whether it’s OK – should your victim manage to crawl weakly out of your front door – to comically pull him back in by his feet and continue the punishment.

  Now that you’re allowed to use ‘proportionate force’, being burgled is probably Justin Lee Collins’s best hope of forming a new relationship. In a shocking piece of news, Justin was found guilty. Surprisingly, not for crimes against TV comedy. He was given 140 hours of unpaid work – the best offer his agent will get him in the next five years. His ex-girlfriend recorded his awful rantings, although, to be fair, so did Channel 4 for many years. Justin forced his girlfriend to sleep facing him. I imagine every night she dreamed she was in an abusive relationship with a barber’s floor. If being a hopeless cunt were a crime, he’d have got longer behind bars than Ian Huntley.

  These revelations have changed the way I think about Justin. Now I hate him for different reasons. Claims this damaging can ruin a person’s career, but fortunately for him he’s already taken care of that himself. In his heyday he was often referred to as a ‘loveable funnyman’, then soon after just ‘loveable’ and now he’s just known as ‘man’. He made a series of shows called Bring Back . . ., in which he reunited the casts of old TV shows. But sadly for Justin Lee Collins, the only thing he hasn’t been able to bring back to TV is Justin Lee Collins. My new favourite game is to watch Oops TV and do his voice over the footage of home videos going wrong, but as he’d really want to say it: ‘Fallen over dancing at a wedding, have you, you dirty whore?!’

  But I digress. ‘Proportionate force’ will probably be most exciting if you work in A&E, as for you it’s going to be like you’re working in a field hospital during a Viking raid. Hopefully, this law will also apply to members of your extended family that drop around unannounced.

  The Tories do have other common-sense measures to reduce burglary, such as prolonging the recession to the point that few of us will still have anything worth stealing. And there’s no denying the government has improved security at rural post offices – very few robbers are now prepared to invest in the petrol needed to try and find one. Thousands of police officers are to be sacked and hundreds of police stations replaced with public-contact points in supermarkets. At least those who’ve kept keep their jobs can keep in touch with those who haven’t, as most will be tailing old ladies they think have hidden frozen chickens under their hats. Fewer police just has to affect response times. I bet we’ll now have to wait ages before they turn up to tell us there’s not really anything they can do. Police say it could mean more riots. I doubt it. Not with all the effort that’s been put in since the last ones to tackle inequality.

  Forty per cent of female police officers consider quitting on account of low morale. I suppose not many things can be as depressing as having all the hassle of being in the police without the physical strength to cheer yourself up by barging an old man with heart problems to his death. Of course, it’s ludicrous to suggest PC Simon Harwood got off lightly for his attack on Ian Tomlinson. I believe he might yet be charged with wilfully damaging a baton.

  The Met claimed they will save £300 million by closing sixty-five police stations. Officers will be moved into post offices, which could save on squad car costs, too, as officers will be able to cover themselves in stamps, write the crime-scene address across their chests and then just climb into a sack – which might have another benefit of a much-needed reduction in response times.

  The government is to get tough on soft-touch jails. I agree that they’re becoming increasingly like holiday camps, as pretty soon they’ll all have their own washed-up 70s and 80s TV entertainers . . . and there are a few in Northern Ireland that could hold their own in any knobbly-knees contest. I’m not surprised prisoners sit around every day watching Jeremy Kyle. To be fair, it’s the only way they get to see their families. Of course prisoners are going to watch TV all day. What do they want them to do? Go on a tour of the National Gallery?

  Should prisoners be allowed to vote? Surely the real question here is whether we can trust them to come back from the polling station. The UK’s blanket ban on prisoners voting has been found to be a breach of human rights, a very popular decision with the nonce wing, who are extremely excited at the prospect of visiting a primary school once every four years. We shouldn’t be governed by people in Strasbourg with no popular mandate. That’s the job of people in London with no popular mandate.

  This’ll mean political parties will have to appeal to prisoners, too – Labour might win the next election on the promise to reduce the price of a bumming to one fruit and nut bar. I really don’t want to live in a country where a cake being brought into prison is used to smuggle a laminated copy of the Liberal Democrat manifesto. Politicians will have to take on prisoners’ ideas – like the best thing to do with the euro is put a load in a sock and hit a nonce in the eye with it. The criminally insane still won’t be allowed to vote, however, so the Lib Dems won’t benefit from the move.

  Why not let psychopaths and mass murderers vote? After all, we’ve been voting for them for years. Perhaps the vote should only be for people serving short sentences – somehow I don’t think a lifer is really going to take the need for a new lollipop lady in Chiswick that seriously. Politicians will now have to canvass in prisons – and I’m guessing unless any of them are standing on an ‘Allow men to hide in bushes and follow women’ ticket, most will be leaving the beast wing with a ‘Don’t know’. I know who most rapists will be voting for: the Green Party. Their policy of more parkland in urban areas and dimming street lights to save energy is a rapists’ charter.

  • • •

  Prisoners having sex changes in UK jails will be allowed to buy padded bras and make-up. And why not? Who doesn’t want to look their best as they’re slopping out or being savagely beaten with a sock filled with snooker balls? No matter how feminine they look, I can’t help feeling the fact they’re in a male prison is a bit of a giveaway.

  A sex change didn’t help notorious Colombian gang member Giovanni Rebolledo, who was arrested despite having the operation and working as a prostitute. Hiding from the police dressed as a prostitute makes about as much sense as hiding from the police disguised as a giant doughnut. He thought they would never suspect him if he had a sex change, but there’s only one foolproof way to avoid detection by the police and that’s to have been on British TV in the 70s.

  A £9 million nationwide database is being established to identify children who might be at risk of abuse. The project is simply to digitise every letter sent to Jim’ll Fix It. Speaking of which, former This Morning stalwart Fred Talbot has got people talking about the weather again. The whether or not he’s a paedophile.

  Police have revealed that Cyril Smith did molest children. How did he lure them? You might think any kid could outrun Cyril. Not so, as tragically the children’s home in question was at the top of a hill. It must have been like being sexually abused by that boulder in Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom.

  In retrospect, dressing like a PE teacher should have been bit of a giveaway that Savile was a paedophile. With his badges and TV show to make dreams come true, other paedophiles’ bags of sweets paled by comparison. ‘I can make their dream of eating their lunch on a roller coaster come true – what’ve you got? A Transit van and a packet of Mentos? Fuck off!’ When you think about it, Savile had a specially equipped chair with treats for kids concealed in it – it’s like Ian Huntley being supplied by Q from Bond’s MI6.

  We’ve got to remember he raised a lot of money for charity and some of that must have gone to his victims. It’s sick he raised money for that MRI machine at Stoke Mandevi
lle. Bad enough wanting to see kids naked, let alone without their skin and soft tissue, too.

  Hats off to the BBC, though. After a mere thirty-five years they leapt into action, saying they’d cooperate with any police enquiry. The channel apparently made Savile wear all that jewellery so kids would hear him coming, the same way you’d put a bell on a cat. After all this, maybe the BBC will have to take action on rumours. Like, for example, the ones I’m starting about Richard Hammond shagging monkeys.

  In order to save time, the police are now advising that only women who were not abused by the paedophile Tarzan should phone in. Savile has achieved the impossible – a further tarnishing of the image of the nylon shell suit. Euugheeeuuurgheeuuurgh! That was one of his catchphrases. Cynically making it like his cum-noise so no one would bat an eyelid hearing it through his dressing-room door.

  I actually felt quite emotional when I heard. I can’t tell you how much I love not having to pay someone I’ve sponsored to do the marathon. He was a great friend of royalty, business and the Church. As I found out when he fixed it for me to be abused on an altar by some giant lizards and their lion-headed archmage, Dr Pandemonium.

  Is the sex offenders’ register now just an old copy of the Radio Times? Pretty weird to think that the only guy in entertainment who wasn’t a sex criminal was Benny Hill. It explains why teenagers’ fashions and hairstyles were so bad in the 70s, as making yourself unattractive was the best means of defence against show-business personalities.

  • • •

  The government’s made stalking a criminal offence, which should help ensure it’s even more exciting. It’s now punishable by up to five years in prison. This is great news, as I really need an incentive to quit. They’ll be able to put away the nutcase who’s watching Natasha Kaplinsky’s house from that other bush. I know Tash is worried about him – she tells me while reading the news, using our special blinking code.

  If found guilty, two young women face eight years in Peruvian jail being played like the pan pipes. The British girls, who were arrested in Peru, have handed a list to their family. It included a variety of items including Pringles, hair-removal cream, Nutella, a pack of cards, cornflakes and a bra. There’s only one man capable of collecting the items in times of crisis. Step up to the plate, Mr Paul Gascoigne. I have a theory that the whole thing’s a misunderstanding and the Peruvians think the girls keep admitting to stuff, because it’s tricky for a Scottish girl not to end every sentence with ‘see?’

  Many women were coveting Michaella Connolly’s jacket. Finally something about this case that women can masturbate over as well. The case has something for everyone – sexy dancers for the dads, cool fashion for the mums, and complex legal and moral arguments for their children as yet unblunted by the horrors of daily life. I’m shocked that people are talking about Connolly’s jacket. I didn’t think society had got to the stage where we were printing pictures of young women in clothes. Connolly will also be asked in prison who made her jacket – but the prisoners will be asking in case it was any of their six-year-olds.

  My one piece of advice when travelling? There’s only one time it’s worth carrying someone else’s bag in an airport. After it’s been round the carousel at least twice and no one’s come forward.

  A crazed woman broke into Simon Cowell’s house with intent to inflict grievous bodily harm. She should be locked up for not managing it. She was eventually caught hiding in his wardrobe, although quite why she thought she’d run into Simon in a closet I’ve no idea. Deluded and mentally unstable, she was only released after guaranteeing that she’d turn up for future Britain’s Got Talent auditions. The woman was described as a ‘fan’ – well, if she only wanted to smash Simon’s head in with a brick then she probably liked him better than the rest of us. He described the woman brandishing a brick as being like a scene from a horror film. Which one? Builder on Elm Street? I’m sure we can all remember that scene in the Hitchcock film where fuck all happens.

  I can’t understand why she was armed with a brick. After all, just a cursory search of Simon’s toilet cabinets and she could have been armed with a two-foot-long dildo with a fist on the end, similar to those used by the Syrian army. Maybe it was her audition for BGT, and she’d just shat the brick out. Simon was concerned that she could have had a gun. Yes, but I think you’d have had time to make an escape while she tried to load the brick into the chamber.

  Simon will be ready if it happens again and will call Sinitta, just like Zeus summoning the Kraken. It seems that, when told she might face six months in prison, the intruder broke down, screaming, ‘At least make it till the next X Factor’s over!’ He’s now stepping up security at his home – somehow, I’m fairly certain no women will ever get into Simon’s bedroom again. Her trial was like a tense stand-off between her and a group of black teenagers who’d turned to crime to keep them out of street dancing. It must have been confusing for Simon to hear a psychiatric assessment that didn’t end with the words ‘fully fit to undergo a world tour’.

  Fellow X Factor judge Tulisa Contostavlos found herself on the wrong side of the law and she was recorded admitting that she used to deal crack. It must make plugging her latest album all the more depressing when she remembers that she used to be involved in selling something people really wanted. Of course, a lot of people around her probably needed to take crack, as Dappy is a lot more tolerable if you think he’s a hallucination.

  I hope Tulisa doesn’t go to prison, but I’m not going to lie and say the idea doesn’t turn me on. Although I’d imagine that after a year of having to sit next to Louis Walsh, being muff-dived by a convicted arsonist as a pool forfeit will feel like a spa weekend. You really don’t want the nickname ‘The Female Boss’ when the police are trying to establish how high up you are in a drug-supply chain.

  In the video Tulisa said she didn’t take drugs herself. I believe her; she seems like a sociable person. And if you were going to alter your mind you’d hardly settle for the one she’s ended up with. Tulisa has talked of working for a crack dealer in her youth, claiming she did well because of her looks. Tulisa, if you’re hanging round with crack addicts, that’s a pretty low bar on the appearance front. No one really believes that Tulisa was a drug dealer – she was just trying to make herself sound more credible. It’s the schemie equivalent of padding out your CV. If she were a member of Coldplay she’d be bragging to undercover reporters that’s she’s got Grade 5 on the bassoon and makes her own honey. Tulisa appears to have had no idea that she was being videoed, as none of the undercover reporters got their penis out.

  Tulisa has given up battling for damages over her leaked sex tape to avoid racking up even more lawyers’ fees, although she did manage to stop her ex from making any money from it. The irony being that if she’d let him make a few quid he’d have been able to afford to pay her the damages she was after. Her ex had hoped to make a fortune but only six people paid to see her sex tape, netting a grand total of £23. It made me quite angry, but also curious about who the other five people were.

  Ken Clarke’s admitted we’re losing the war against drugs. Maybe it’s finally time to switch sides and join them in their glorious fight against our hideous, hideous reality. Magic mushrooms are said to help combat depression. It’s hard to feel sad when you’re in a knife-fight with Kermit the Frog.

  According to a United Nations official, drugs gangs control Manchester, Liverpool and Birmingham. It feels like a historic day when someone talks about drug problems without mentioning Glasgow. If there are so many drugs in these cities then it does beg the question why aren’t the people who live there a bit more cheerful? They want to instigate drug-prevention programmes for youngsters – well, it’s going to be one hell of a good youth club to be more exciting than crack. I’m proud to say that my kids would never get involved in drugs – they’re far too pissed. Stories like this are so worrying that even the UN official had to spark up a spliff to take the edge off. Despite this report, it would be wrong t
o think of people from these cities as all being drug pushers – many of them are thieves or benefit cheats.

  I don’t fancy this idea of heroin addicts getting community sentences. I’d hate to think of one painting my nan’s house. She could turn nasty if they find her stash. I’d prefer speed addicts, maybe; then they’d have it done in time for Bargain Hunt. Mitch Winehouse is setting up a foundation in his daughter’s name so he can help save young addicts. Hmm. It’s not exactly an area where he’s got a great track record.

  Tulisa’s former bandmate Dappy has been ordered to do 150 hours of community service, roughly equating to a two-month ban from the recording studio. Americans do that whole lawbreaking celeb thing on a much grander scale. A US talent agency has pitched Lindsay Lohan as ‘available for bar mitzvahs’. I was going to book Lindsay for a party myself but decided to drag it upmarket and get a hooker in her place. No, only joking, I booked Michael J. Fox instead – unfortunately I gave him the job of serving the peas and I’m still finding them on top of the curtain pelmets and lampshades.

  Meanwhile, Glee actor Cory Monteith died from an overdose of heroin and alcohol. A lesson to us all – that heroin and alcohol should only be taken in moderation. In gun-crazed America a five-year-old boy was given his own gun, which he used to shoot and kill his little sister. The boy was expected to be safe because he’d had the gun for a year. To be fair, a year ago his sister wouldn’t have been as annoying. The coroner called it ‘a crazy accident’, showing all the logic and skills of a man who defines heart attacks as ‘that little drummer in his chest got out somehow’. He’d always behaved safely when out hunting, but then deer and rabbits didn’t break his Action Man. Many parents battle with teaching kids the concept of death. At least they won’t have to buy him a goldfish now. Five-year-olds just don’t have a concept of death, which is why they can watch the Chipmunk films without crying for Jason Lee’s career. Things were so much simpler when I was a kid. If you wanted to kill your sister you had to go to the effort of writing a letter to Jim’ll Fix It.