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

by Frankie Boyle

  Bruce Willis is taking Apple to court for the right to leave his iTunes collection to his daughters after he dies. After all, what daughter doesn’t want to listen to her father’s music collection? The iTunes agreement states we only borrow music from iTunes. Maybe, but surely it’s in the same way as when being shown round houses by an estate agent we ‘borrow’ CDs. Bruce. Forget it. They’re your kids. They’re going to want your music collection about as much as they’d want a balaclava woven from your pubes.

  Pete Townshend described iTunes as a ‘digital vampire’. Wasn’t that the title of the book he was researching? He’s been researching for quite a while now; it’s going to be like Finnegans Wake. Footnote 23, page 900: I saw this in a porno.

  Apple has become the most valuable company ever, leading to stock-market excitement and a flurry of extra bubbles from the jar-bound brain of Steve Jobs. The rush of iPhone 5 orders led to backslapping at Apple HQ and a subtle increase in beats per minute of the giant drums inside their factories. Apple is making big strides to deal with consumers’ concerns over the appalling conditions in their Chinese factories. By making the new iPhone even shinier. Look at how shiny it is. Shiny.

  This is a good moment to spare a thought for those who toil to make our stuff. Like when my partner opened her birthday gift and that note fell out. It still brings a tear to my eye: Help! Trapped behind boxes in a dildo factory in Guangdong province. Dildos, nothing but dildos as far as the eye can see. No human contact for three months now. Just dildos. Surviving on the moisture that condenses on their cold plastic shafts. Send help. Please don’t send dildos.

  I confess I’ve just bought my son an iPad. With the help of a Stanley knife I’ve wedged it in the face of his favourite teddy bear so I can Skype him when I’m on tour. I confess I forgot to account for the cooling ventilation holes at the back. Lucky he’s still a bit of a bed wetter, though I suspect there could be a few problems in later life caused by having to urinate on a burning fluffy bear with the face of his father.

  There’s actually a new mobile phone aimed at four-year-olds. That’s all we need – journeys interrupted by someone screaming, ‘I’m on the choo choo.’

  One in three people say it’s acceptable to answer a mobile phone during sex. I always answer the phone during sex. It could be the taxi I’ve ordered. Only kidding, I’d never do that. I’m hardly going to pull it out when it takes so long to get it up there in the first place.

  Did you see Dear Deidre’s advice on internet pornography’s threat to marriage? She reckons there are 755 million pages of porn on the web. Really? I’m sure I only counted 754,523,672. The Sesame Street Youtube channel was hit by a porn attack. I logged on hoping to find Big Bird and was lucky enough to see a big bird. It looked like she was being operated by a naked puppeteer who was trying to get his hand all the way up but sadly it didn’t look like he could work her eyes, which had the dead quality of a ventriloquist’s dummy.

  Ministers have announced plans to force the public to notify their internet provider if they want access to adult sites. Oh God, I find it hard enough as it is asking the Virgin Media girl what colour pants she’s wearing. I’ve always been keen to stop my boy seeing that sort of thing. Even at his birth I was there bellowing, ‘Son, whatever you do don’t look behind you!’ The government could be playing with fire here. The only thing keeping this country the right side of anarchy is masturbation and talent shows. I’ve already had a frank talk about internet pornography with my son. I didn’t have much choice; he came back early from school and before anyone had noticed he wandered on set. The anti-regulation campaign say it’s not the government’s job to bring up children. I agree. I didn’t buy that huge TV for nothing.

  Somehow I always knew it was going to require state intervention to stop me watching porn. Of all the measures Cameron has taken to get us out of recession – quantitative easing, banking tax, austerity cuts – this might be the one move that actually gets Britain back to work. What’s the point of being in the house all day if there’s nothing to wank to? You might as well go to work.

  All it means is that men will evolve, and within two years we’ll have developed the ability to masturbate to a picture of a cat that looks like Hitler. Lads, if you want to know how to fast-track this ability, first learn to do it to any cat. Then learn to do it to pictures of Hitler. Then merge the two. I reckon in ten years’ time, without pornography I’ll have developed the skills to knock one off to a blinking cursor. There she is. No, she’s gone again. Oh, she’s back. No, she’s off again. What a dirty little tease.

  17

  RELATIONSHIPS

  Relationships require work, understanding and sometimes sacrifice. So it’s probably best not to bother. A lover is like a great film. Fine the first few times, then you’d rather do anything than see it again. It’s not that you start to notice imperfections in The Godfather, it’s just that you’ve fucking seen it and now you’d rather have any old straight-to-DVD shit.

  So, we’ve all had negative experiences. Maybe you’ve gone out with someone who said they had a rape fantasy, then it turned out that they really just hated their twin. But what are relationships exactly? You know J. G. Ballard’s idea that we’ve deliberately created an unsustainable society because we secretly hope for its breakdown and a return to an invigorating chaos? Maybe relationships are like that – an unsustainable little social unit that will allow us to return to the chaos of shagging. The chaos of getting drunk and shagging, and not having anybody to tell us not to. And not really even shagging or getting drunk, but just forgetting to buy dinner and eating cereal instead, and watching a lot of Netflix on our own and crying. And thinking that we’ll eventually pull ourselves together and start drinking and shagging, perhaps when we’ve finished writing this book.

  Or maybe sexual relations are a kind of training for broader political relations. Perhaps in tribal times a relationship would have taught you everything you needed to know to survive: training to develop a detailed memory for grievances, to browbeat an opponent in debate, to prioritise your own interests. In tribal times, jealousy, possessiveness, irrationality and a kind of constant depressed rage might have been useful qualities. Perhaps I’ve just had some particularly negative relationships. Who knows?

  We’re a messed-up, sexist culture with no male word for ‘slut’, no male word for ‘mistress’, and sexism seems to be growing as we become increasingly atomised. Being lonely can double your chances of dying early. But the silver lining is that there’s nobody who’ll give a fuck. Do married people really live longer? Or does it just seem that way? Research suggests that men with kids are less likely to die from heart disease. Maybe, but I suspect they’re more likely to die from stress, poverty or choking on a Lego paramedic that’s somehow got into their sandwich.

  Lawyers are routinely ripping off divorcing couples. Glasgow lawyers know not to use that approach, as if they quote more than £800 they know they can be undercut by a hit man.

  Ministers are planning on giving couples a divorce app to get them through a break-up. For men, it will provide a list of porn sites and a link to Ocado. I liked that story where a husband trying to prove to his wife that he was good at doing the housework accidentally burnt his face when the phone rang and he picked up the iron. He won’t be making that mistake again! As he’s now deaf.

  Women apparently spend three hours a week re-doing chores their partners haven’t finish properly. Well, that would certainly explain the locked bedroom door and all that buzzing and it certainly beats my ‘affair with a giant bee’ theory. I wish I’d known earlier, as I’d have saved a lot of money not getting that giant newspaper made. According to the survey, one of the tasks men neglected was ‘plumping pillows’. Who’s got time to do that? Last time I’d one in my hand my only concern was getting nan’s saliva and teethmarks off before I called the paramedics.

  Seventy per cent of Brits complain that their partner snores in bed. I’m one of them – the only way I can st
op her seems to be insisting she goes on top. Scots couples are the most likely to sleep separately. The main reason for this being that they rarely black out in the same room.

  Another study showed that women secretly bin clothes belonging to their partner. My girlfriend threw out my favourite old Arran sweater so I went through the bin and got it back. Either that or I’m just wearing a load of old pasta. Either way, it serves her right.

  More than half of men have no say in where they go on holiday. They try to express a preference but they always get overruled and end up having to go where their family are going.

  The UK’s favourite pet name for a partner is ‘Babe’. I call mine ‘Auntie Dot’. The lesson there being if you do borrow some flowers, be sure to check there’s not a card in them before you hand them over.

  When it comes to a partner, vouchers imply more thought has gone into things than if you just give money. Which is win–win for me, as B&Q’s a good two hundred yards closer than my nearest cashpoint. The trick is to pick up subtle clues and hints by listening to your loved one throughout the year. Alternatively, just take a punt on some chocolates and a dildo.

  Don’t forget Valentine’s Day. I shall be lighting candles on the edge of the bath. Well, I always do. The window is painted shut so it’s either that or fix the extractor fan. Ah, Valentine’s Day – for couples to celebrate that little four-letter word that keeps them together. Fear. There’s nothing like a Valentine’s card for letting someone know that a stranger wants to fuck them. Ladies, if you’re wondering who a Valentine’s card came from, it’ll be from that freak who keeps staring at you. Nothing says love like flowers. Beautiful, expensive and dead in three days. As usual I ended up down the all-night garage for Valentine’s Day. I should count myself lucky my girlfriend loves a pasty. I’m joking. I was just taking her sandwiches in as without her doing her overtime there she’s going to struggle to afford to come on holiday with me and the boy.

  I ballsed up the gift, actually. You’d think a pink bear holding a heart-shaped box of chocolates would be ideal. But some of the paint got in its eyes so I had to take it down with a tranquilliser dart. It’s not the perfect Valentine’s Day start, wrestling something that size into the bath so you can slit its throat with a bread knife. I went pretty big on the flowers this year and they weren’t that expensive. As thankfully my local council ran out of grit weeks ago.

  Forgotten a present for a loved one? Simply tip a couple of buckets of water on the carpet the night before, then follow them into the room before wailing, ‘Your swan! Your beautiful carved-ice swan sculpture!’ Incidentally, if you’re looking for gift ideas I recommend Eskimo porn. The best one is Ice Age of Consent 4. And do go for number 4 – for the first three they’re just getting undressed.

  I read that the number four top sex fantasy was using toys together in bed. But don’t do it. Yes, I might have won Buckaroo!, but my girlfriend had to wear a plaster for a week when that donkey kicked her square in the clitoris.

  Sex toys are now for sale at Boots, prominently displayed close to healthcare products in full view of children. What do you think would traumatise kids more? Having them see their mum buy a cock ring, or watch an old man choosing between Anusol and Boots own-brand?

  Kicking a sex addiction must be near impossible. You tell yourself you’ll never have sex with a stranger again, no more sex with strangers, sex with strangers, sex, Sex, SEX, SEXSEXSEXSEX!!! What was the name of that clinic again? I presume for a sex addict, settling down to have sex with the same person for the rest of your life feels much like handing an alcoholic a gift-wrapped bag of wine gums.

  It’s hard work being a sex addict. I’m sure drug addiction would be less prevalent if you could only get heroin by taking your dealer out to dinner and then having to sit patiently through a film they wanted to watch. I’m sure you can have lots of sex without the psychology of an addict – look at Imogen Thomas, lots of sex, the psychology of a fish trying to evolve legs. Good luck giving up porn. No internet, no phone. Even Michael Jackson’s isolation tent was lined with naked pictures of Musical Youth.

  And then there’s dogging. The thing with dogging is I can never tell how into it the couple in the car are. Usually they just drive off when the lights change. I don’t know, there are worse things to do. The dog gets walked. You get to crack one off across someone’s windscreen. Everybody’s happy. Recent research shows that men have had sex in the car on average six times. Not me. Passed my test on the second go. Other new research suggests the ideal gap in a relationship is four years and four months. From my experience, it’s actually just over twenty-five miles.

  • • •

  The Dalai Lama toured the UK preaching celibacy. He says celibacy brings contentment. He might be right – after all, loads of studies link being married to being happy. Tibetan Buddhists reject all earthly desire for material possessions, although I suspect that’s partly due to Tibet not having a single branch of John Lewis.

  An East Sussex care home admitted it allowed hookers in to stop patients from becoming sexually frustrated and groping carers. It must make a nice change for the residents in the care home not to be the ones needing their chin wiped. How much more exciting must sex be when you can dispense with safety words and just pull the safety cord instead? Could anything be better than having a hooker grinding away on top of you and knowing that just before the point of orgasm you can pull a cord and have somebody dressed in a nurse’s uniform walk in and watch you finish? I’d suggest an alternative would be to fill their time with more craft activities, but I doubt after you’ve tried a real one that a wicker vagina would match up.

  I enjoyed the report that speculated robotic prostitutes could turn a crime-ridden industry into a respectable, ‘guilt-free’ business. Would you rather be the woman who has sex with a stranger but gets paid £300 for her trouble? Or the same woman who gets paid the minimum wage to slop out the vaginas of a thousand robo-whores? It will be a great day for women everywhere when a robotic prostitute can be issued to every truck driver in the land. They can keep them in their cab and do what they like to them. And, of course, the robotic prostitutes can be fitted with GPS so the police can quickly find them even after they’ve been smashed up with a hammer and put in a shallow grave. If you’ve ever been to a prostitute you’ll know that it would literally be impossible for them to become any more robotic.

  Men are supposedly genetically programmed to fall asleep after sex. Guilty. Sometimes it’s as much as I can do to click down the central locking so no one tries to make off with my sat nav. It happens so quickly with me I sometimes wonder if my partner only stays with me for my high tog value. It’s a shame, as many women like a post-coital chat. Luckily, I’ve found a way round the problem by writing a selection of local cab numbers on the ceiling.

  A man claimed he had sex six times a day with his fifty-two-stone ex-wife after they were reunited. He said his biggest mistake was ‘letting Pauline go’ – I’m guessing he missed the words ‘on top’ off the end of that sentence. He did admit, however, that when he switched the light on after one of his most passionate encounters it turned out to be just him and a half-inflated airbed. Her son is described as her carer – he feeds her and scrubs her down. That’s not being a carer; that’s the job description of a fucking zoo keeper. All the measurements with her diet are wrong – like a ‘pint’ of ice cream and a ‘bag’ of French bread. I imagine she measures sweets in fathoms.

  I have to say, my overall growing seediness probably goes hand in hand with an increasing inability to fuck anyone properly. I read a thing that said men are at their sexiest in their forties. Who was being surveyed? Women in their fifties? Admittedly, I did have sex on a beach once – it seemed like the kindest thing to do after I failed to get the whale back into the sea.

  18

  SCOTLAND

  I hope Scotland gets its independence, largely because an annual Scottish Independence Day will look like the fucking D-Day landings. With less t
han a year to go to the independence referendum you have to wonder where the campaign is. Everybody in Britain claims devotion to the idea of democracy but most areas of life are run by elites. They view the idea of ordinary people making decisions about ‘their’ world like they’d view the prospect of their minds being colonised by a civilisation of telepathic ants. The people behind the independence campaign are really trying to give us an opportunity to swap elites. The mindset? Why should the English divvy up Scotland for their cronies when it could be divvied up for ours? Of course, Scottish people sound different in their internal monologue when no English are listening and they’ll actually be thinking, ‘Wha nacht split yon monees tween wir sleekit neebours?’, but the point stands.

  I’m completely pro independence, but naturally the campaign so far has been a leg-wobbling tranquilliser dart of smirking insipidity and Alan Cumming. There’s been no attempt to engage with ordinary people, partly because to succeed it would have to draw a lot of non-voters into political action. That’s something that nobody in our political classes really wants. It could well be that politicians pushing for independence don’t want to succeed. That might sound ridiculous, but remember they’re politicians. They spend their whole lives lying to other people; why wouldn’t they be lying to themselves?

  Scotland has provoked fear in British politicians since the days of the Red Clydesiders. It emerged a few years ago that deliberate underestimates of Glasgow’s population have been used to starve it of public funds since Churchill’s time. The reason being that it was seen, along with Liverpool, as the most likely starting point of a revolution.

  It’s no coincidence that Scotland today is a sedated culture. BBC Scotland has quotas of programmes that have to be made here, so it transfers English shows up to Scotland in what seems to be a desperate and self-hating attempt to deny Scottish programme-makers a voice. Broadsheet newspapers in Scotland have a reading age in the early teens. The population is seen as volatile and so the culture presented to them is a clear soup of anaesthetising platitudes. I remember doing an interview once for the Glasgow Herald: