Frankie Boyle On Bromley

Just finished reading Frankie Boyle's autobiography, My Shit Life So Far. Yes I know, only cunts read the autobiographies of panel show contestants, a point Frankie himself raises in the Introduction.

Anyway, in his book Frankie describes the time he spent in Bromley. This struck a chord with me because I've lived in Bromley all my life.

Basically, if you ever have to go there and you really can't get out of it, kill yourself. I'd kill myself if I had to change trains there. Nobody between the ages of 18 and 30 lives there; only the occasional acid casualty living with their parents will have failed to get the fuck out at the first opportunity. It's so incredibly nondescript that I would feel foolish trying to describe it. Avoid.

He's right too. Steer well clear.

Andy Milonakis - Gazpacho EP Mixtape

How John Steinbeck Inspired Bill Hicks

Like all devoted followers of Hicks, I'm constantly on the lookout for titbits of information that’ll help shed light on the man behind the stand up. To date, Love All The People – a comprehensive collection of Bill Hicks’ letters, lyrics and stand up routines – is the closest I’ve come to viewing the world through his eyes.

After I’d watched his entire DVD collection, listened to all his albums and trawled Youtube for obscure interviews and club performances, I stopped looking. Surely there was nothing left to discover. And then along came American – The Bill Hicks Story.

It's worth buying the DVD for the bonus content alone. The extensive interviews with Bill's family and friends are both sweet and insightful. Did you know, for example, that Bill's last ever written words were inspired by John Steinbeck's The Grapes of Wrath? No, me niether.

It's Bill's favourite book. Compelled by a voyeurisitc urge to crawl inside Bill's brain, I too read the book. I wanted to see if I could locate the exact passage that Bill Hicks fell in love with.

And, by golly, I think I found it…

I left in love, in laughter, and in truth and wherever truth, love and laughter abide, I am there in spirit.
Bill Hicks' last written words

I'll be ever'where - wherever you look. Wherever they's a fight so hungry people can eat, I'll be there. Wherever they's a cop beatin' up a guy, I'll be there ... I'll be in the way guys yell when they're mad an' - I'll be in the way kids laugh when they're hungry an' they know supper's ready. An' when our folks eat the stuff they raise an' live in the houses they build - why, I'll be there.
Tom Joad - The Grapes Of Wrath

Parky’s Petulant Shit-flinging

Sir Michael Parkinson, CBE. What a sanctimonious old tit.

The silver haired misery guts decided to get all huffy about Russell Brand’s sashgate ‘scandal’ a full two years after the incident actually took place. His sulky disapproval was made public in his appearance on Paul O’Grady’s chat show. Russell Brand, also a guest on the show, was accused by Parkinson of having acted ‘daft’. Like an angry headmaster scolding a child he demanded to know ‘what’s funny about it?’

Parky’s petulant shit-flinging continued with his appearance on Five Live where he labelled Brand ‘pointless, artless, unfunny and creatively dull’. By aligning himself with the joyless, hate-fuelled Daily Mail mob, Parky has nailed his colours to the mast.

What really makes my cock weep blood is how the retired chat show host never misses an opportunity to remind us of his journalistic roots. Objectivity, detachment, research – all the hallmarks of good traditional journalism and all completely ignored by Parkinson in his dogged quest to slur Brand. Perhaps if Parky were to remove his head from his arse and venture outside his opulent palace of splendour from time to time he’d notice that Brand is one of the most unique and gifted comedians this country has ever produced.

The sickly sweet sycophancy that characterised Parkinson’s interviews became increasingly contrived and unpalatable as the years passed by. Thankfully they are no more. Less to be thankful about is Parkinson’s lack of direction. Without an endless supply of celebrity colon to climb up Parky has resorted to petty name calling. For Christ’s sake someone give the man another chat show, some grotty cable channel will suffice, if only to keep his clumsy mouth occupied. Senility will take care of the rest.

Crudely Doodled Genitals

YUCK! I’ve just fallen victim to Second Hand Book syndrome. Regular library goers will know exactly what I’m talking about. Borrowing a book is not for the faint hearted. Pussies need not apply.

I don’t mind the idiot-proof dust jackets. Or the yellowing pages. I'll even forgive the crudely doodled genitals. After all, wear and tear is a book’s badge of public approval. Scan my book shelf at home and it’s clear from their broken spines and bruised faces which paperbacks I hold dear. My copy of If This Is a Man has all but disintegrated.

Generally speaking, library books are wonderful tomes of enlightenment. But every so often, lurking deep within their papery gills, is a spectacle so foul it’ll make your eyes weep blood. I’m talking of course about the rogue nose-bogie. Some churlish oik, too damn lazy to find a tissue, fishes an emerald nugget from their hooter and smears it across the page. And there it festers, like a tiny green corpse, until it’s unearthed by the next library goer.

Maybe that’s why library attendance has continually dropped since 2005. The general public, forced to play snot roulette with each turn of the page, has finally had enough. To all you clandestine mucus miners: stop picking your nose and save our libraries!

Mog Molesting Mary

Just heard the couple next door rowing. Hardly news worthy material I know. But this wasn’t your bog standard domestic. This was war: a tonsil-shredding, door slamming, dust-up. Thirty minutes of toxic hate and sobbing hysteria. It was terrifying.

Forgive the cliché but it’s always the people you least expect. Just the other day me and my neighbour, let’s call him Fritzel, were having a mundane over-the-fence chat about nothing in particular. You know how it is, the usual crushingly dull small talk. I often see Fritzel and his wife Hindley pottering contentedly in their immaculate garden. Fritzel even pops round every month to mow our lawn, free of charge. Bloody nice chap that Fritzel fella.

But, gah!, no matter how hard I try to block it out, I’ll always hear the hate-fuelled obscenities he spat at his wife. Yes, everyone’s allowed a lapse in sanity now and again. The human race is anything but perfect. In fact, it’s consistently idiotic. But I seem to have this internal barometer that starts to fizz and smoke whenever someone has irrevocably crossed the threshold of decency – a cuntometer if you will.

And it’s not just Fritzel that’s scored a hit on the cuntometer this week. Mary Bale has too. For the uninitiated Mary is the bespectacled fat-arse who enraged all decent human beings when she was caught on CCTV dumping a cat in a wheelie bin. Unfortunately, we’re spoiled for choice when it comes to cunts. We’re overrun with them. Everywhere you look you’re bound to find one. There’s no escape. Unfortunately for Mary she was caught being a cunt. So let’s stick with her.

Mary, a dead ringer for Viz's Millie Tant, was walking down a street in Coventry, minding her own business, when all of a sudden she spies a cat. There’s something horribly disjointed about a woman who affectionately strokes a purring kitty before grabbing it by the neck and lobbing it in a wheelie bin. When asked why she did it Mary said, “I really don’t see what everyone is getting so excited about – it’s just a cat”.

Well, Mary, here’s why everyone’s upset. Aside from being incredibly callous, it’s been proven that a strong link exists between animal cruelty and violent crimes against humans. The thrill Mary experienced from her impromptu act of cruelness is unsettling. Her inability to comprehend the public’s outrage is equally troubling. In summary: steer well clear of mog molesting Mary. Especially if there’s a wheelie bin in sight. They seem to bring out her dark side.

Hateful Cluster of Cunts

Stop press! Groundbreaking news just in! Brace yourself because this is an absolute humdinger. Ready? Okay, here goes...

Life is unfair.

I was struck by this supernova-revelation while reading The Sun. An unlikely source for life changing epiphanies I know, but there you have it. Anyway, there was a photo of a young boy, embarrassed but bursting with pride, standing next to his hero - none other than international super star David Beckham. It made me feel all warm and fuzzy. Beckham, so famous it must cause him actual physical pain, took the time to pose for a picture with one of his fans. Awww, nice one Becks.

But then my eyes fell upon the second photo on the page. No warm cotton-wool fuzziness on display here. Just tragic nauseating horror. The photo showed the same young lad. But he wasn’t standing in this picture. He was sitting on a bench. Alone. He was sitting because both his legs had been blown off by a Taliban bomb. Private Ryan Hewitt, 18, also lost a finger and fractured his spine, jaw and eye socket after stepping on a booby-trap in Afghanistan.

It happened like this. Beckham had a bit of spare time on his hands after tearing his Achilles tendon and missing out on the World Cup. So being the lovely chap he is Becks flew out to Camp Bastion in Afghanistan - a morale-booster for our boys on the front line. Ryan was lucky enough to get a picture taken with his hero. Fast forward a few weeks and Ryan’s contemplating how hard life will be without the use of his legs. It’s a tragedy that highlights the arse-thudding futility of war. It also makes a complete mockery of the ridiculous notion that a benevolent God watches over us.

Life is unfair. And cruel. Always has been always will be. It’s hard enough simply being a human without our government’s lunatic desire to send children to die in illegal wars. Inevitably, acute feelings of rage and horror fade to impotent resignation. We feel helpless against the overwhelming tide of stupidity and nastiness that blights our everyday lives.

But we can make a difference. We really can. I don’t mean to sound like a brainless utopian fantasist but WE REALLY CAN. How about a humble gesture of kindness now and again? How about treating others how you’d like to be treated? At least it’s a start. Just because our government acts like a hateful cluster of cunts doesn’t mean we have to follow suit.