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I wrote an article. It got
published in a peer-reviewed philosophy journal. Pears don’t know shit about
philosophy.
I was arguing for a new criterion of aesthetics – I said that what we look
for aesthetically is for something to be a little bit familiar, but different
enough to be interesting – sort of like your girlfriend’s sister.
Most comedians go in for self-deprecation. I thought, fuck that, let me
tell you about being hung like a horse – the major difference is that my tail
doesn’t swish when the vertebrae snap.
Well, you’re probably all thinking that I lead a pretty enviable existence.
Sex drugs etc. The sex drugs are expensive though, and even they lose their
effectiveness after a while.
it’s because of this that i'm so worried about the decreasing levels of
fertility as a result of increasing levels of oestrogen in the drinking water
- that's why i regularly masturbate in the sink
but that’s had its down sides too. I wistfully remember
how when I was younger, I thought that getting a carpal tunnel was something
very dirty. back then, I used to
masturbate furiously all the time – mind you, now I find it puts me in a
pretty good mood
Unfortunately though, I got piles. I’m not ashamed to say it. The doctor
says that I might have picked it up sitting too long in a fixed position – on
the toilet, as it happens. Unfortunately though, I had no choice – that’s
where the peephole to the women’s changing rooms had to be.
Piles is not a very attractive condition. Texturewise, it’s a little bit
like when your shoelaces are undone, and they drag on the ground, so that if
it’s been raining and you step in a puddle, then when you bend over to tuck
them back in, they’re all stringy and damp and dripping.
I often trace my lack of self-confidence back to my childhood days. I had
asthma, ezcema and hayfever. apparently it’s medical fact that they tend to
all go together. it was after I found that out that I founded my religion
based on the realisation that god is actually a sadistic small child.
when I was at school, they used to spike my hayfever spray with dandelion
cordial, and put helium in my asthma nebuliser. I tried everything to cure
myself– even acupuncture. the thing about acupuncture though is that it's a
bit of a wild stab in the dark
anyway, things got better at college. I lived in a house with 8 people and
1 fridge, lots of milk, and a lot of milk-stealing. I hate milk theft. I had
to use more and more elaborate ploys to catch them after they got wise to the
beartrap.
First, I tried to convince them that my milk was really mouldy and off. I
find that adding little pink bits of chopped-up marshmallow dipped in parsley
are ideal for this - it looks just like rotting pussy ... no, *pus-ridden*
bits of flesh
So eventually I got a mate who works in a hospital to get hold of some of
those little urine sample beakers - unused. I dyed the milk a sort of deep
uriny orange with some crimson added for a sort of menstrual suset effect,
and decanted it into the piss-beakers. That really did the trick.
No one touched my milk after that. But - I developed a taste for piss. If
you drink piss before going to sleep, it sends you right off to dreamland,
and best of all, you don't have to warm it up like milk. When my housemates
got wind of my ‘acquired taste’, they starting safeguarding their glasses of
beer by disguising them – they’d dye them white and hide them in milk bottles
and I wouldn’t touch ‘em.
I had an idea for a new revolution in user interfaces - replace the
standard 102 key keyboard with a blow-up doll – I call it the point and clit
interface
the terrible fallacy of ‘anything that does not kill me makes me stronger’
– cognitive gullibility test that natural selection has devised so it doesn’t
have to bother with predators any more to weed out the maladaptive losers
Where possible, I like to offend. and the only thing I enjoy doing more
than offending an entire group of people at once, is offending two entire
opposing factions. So imagine this scene at the office party last year - the
theme is 'Heroes and Villians'. Well, I misunderstood, and thought you had to
go as a hero AND a villian at the same time. So I went as Osama Bin Laden cum
Jesus Christ. the more i thought about it, there seemed to be quite a
striking similarity. they both spend a lot of time in deserts, have big
beards, and wear white. Admittedly Jesus hasn't been fingered for any suicide
bombings, and Bin Laden doesn't preach a message of universal tolerance, but
he is going to get crucified when the Americans catch him.
in fact, i'd like to dedicate this to a friend of mine, a 9/11 victim -
who i imagine died the same way he lived his life - hoping that there would
be a special someone who would rescue him from the pain, and that no one would
notice his blatant attempts to be the first out of the office
on the iraq war - if they had spent $80b on hydrogen fuel research, they
could have crack the problem wide open. having said that, they'll probably
get their money back from merchandising anyway
it's funny actually - everyone thinks bin laden is holed up in a cave in
afghanistan. I can reveal an exclusive – the reason we haven’t been able to
find him is because he’s in london. he’s a smart bugger, and he realised that
the way he could cause most havoc would be as head of the london underground
train drivers’ union. he can fuck up a million people’s day and cost a
Western country billions of pounds in one fell swoop. he’s been at this game
for 20 years now, and it’s getting harder and harder to come up with reasons
for striking. “the sandwiches were cold last week” – we can’t work in these
inhumane conditions. we need showers and lockers. we want more rights for
claustrophobic tube drivers. etc. then, a couple of months ago, someone comes
up to him with an idea. “yeah, whatever, fly it into the building if you
think that'll work – this, here with the tube drivers, is where the real
action's at”. so that’s how it started.
I believe you should live each day as if it is your last. Which is why I
don't have any clean laundry because, come on, who wants to wash clothes on
the last day of their life?
i'm so miserable sometimes, i just want to slit someone's wrists
having said that, today was a pretty good day. i figured out how to get
the bog roll in my bathroom to roll out smoothly today - my therapist says
that i should look for triumphs wherever i can find them
i'll tell you something that irritates me. people screaming in concerts.
you don't find that in the albert hall, do you? it's a particularly teenage
phenomenon, as far as i can tell, and the ones just below bat auditory range
are usually female. it's not a recent thing either. john lennon complained
that the screaming was so loud when they played that fuckoff stadium in new
york that no one could hear their music. if i was a front man for a band, and
i was strumming my favourite track, about love or suicide or the trials of
being rich and adored, and the pain of overly-frequent ejaculation, and all
these girls were screaming at me, i'd just stop playing. till they stopped.
maybe even hold up my hand, and make the audience sit quiet before i started
again. because i'd feel like just some sexually-charged, sexual being, some
sex object that people would just want to have sex with. but i'm a musician
goddamnnit. all that sex. i mean, it's not the volume as much as the
incoherent, wordlessness of it. i'd feel like a freak. walk on stage.
everyone screams. i'd be, like, what's wrong. [touches face to check it's all
there].
I’m such a carnivore, i'll eat anything that bleeds. actually that's not
true. i draw the line at menstruating women.
Heckling
if any of you have seen my show before, you're probably best off going and
getting wankered at the bar, cos it's all the same. or, go and talk to the
big men dressed in black at the door and tell them you'd like your money
back. bouncers, if that happens, beat the shit out of them, so that i don't
get bored while i'm onstage
the average punter asks himself, have I wasted my money on this bloke? do
I feel embarrassed for him? if not, I’m going to fucking laugh, because I’ve
paid fucking ten pounds. and so it doesn't matter a jot that i’m fucking crap
at telling jokes. because you’re all laughing. you stupid fuckers. this is
great. you nasty smelly desperate species. when the mothership lands, I
swear, you’re all fucked. anyway. let me tell you about…
Would you do that in the theatre? you wouldn't, would you? would you?
*would* you??? perhaps you would. you clearly have no manners whatsoever. i
mean, why do you do it. it's not big, and it's not clever. i wouldn't mind if
it was clever.
are you fat, or stupid, or in some other way discompensed and
disadvantaged relative to the rest of the animal kingdom so that you feel
bitter and justified in your uncomedic rancour?
i mean, do you really think that just because you are pitiful you have
some god-given right to be irritating as well? please, be quiet. don't add
public self-embarrassment to your list of achievements before dying in a
messy and probably pathetic fashion.
I wonder, did your mother cry very hard when you were born? Do you think
it’s normal that she’s still suffering from post-natal depression?
Listen, you were born a turd - there's no need for you to work at it
You like to stir, don’t you, sir – it’s just a shame that you’ve only got
a little spoon
I'm terribly sorry sir, but you appear to have got your aesophagus and
your anus confused - try speaking out of the other one
Mate, my job is to make you look like a dick, but you're doing just fine
on your own, so if you just want to carry on, i'll go and get a drink
Were you abused as a child? Perhaps you should have been
Roll up, roll up – everybody, buy your tickets now to see the amazing
maladaptive man – an evolutionary dead-end folks, only able to survive in
today’s overly permissive society
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