Scotland's Jesus: The Only Officially Non-Racist Comedian
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Reading Scotland's Jesus should be like being called into the living room by your child shouting that they see a little red dot on the head of a TV newscaster, then riding the white hot bullet through the propaganda circuitry of his or her exploding brain. It's a funny book about the news, partly because it was decided that a pornographic book about Scottish Independence wouldn't really sell.
In chapters ranging from International Politics to the Animal World, Scotland's Jesus is allowed the opportunity to showcase his increasingly unsympathetic worldview and disintegrating psyche. A torrent of jokes about recent events provide the framework for a broader philosophical despair. Frankie Boyle uses the stories of the popular press as a springboard to explain the nature of reality and the details of our enslavement to mirthless corporate Warlocks.
the females only ovulate once a year – although that does mean Mr Panda can go the other eleven months without coming home to her crying because he didn’t switch the dishwasher on. Every year Sweetie only has a day and a half in which to conceive, although a preference for mating in the summer means in a Scottish zoo that window could drop to just eighteen hours. Thirty-six hours to have as much sex as possible – I’d suggest packing them off to a Club 18-30 resort in Faliraki, sharpish. And hope
visit. You’ll have noticed that you sometimes get left-field people allowed into news studios to comment on tomorrow’s papers, mainly because the agenda is so rigidly set by what the papers cover. The effect is to make it look like a lot of clever people are interested in this shit. They’re not. The celeb doesn’t give a deep-fried fuck about China, because by the very nature of being famous enough to front the show he’s being torn away from his golden house, beautiful wife and the sentient robot
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
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