Russell Brand - Do I like him, or don't I?

I just watched The British Comedy Awards on Channel 4 (thank fuck for SKY+!), and I'm stuck in a bit of a dichotomy.

Russell Brand won this award: "Outstanding Contribution To British Comedy".

This is where I have a problem. It's not that Brand doesn't deserve the award, it's just that I can't work out whether I like him or not. And the similarities between us bug me, as I feel like I'm trying to be him (even though I'm not).

For instance, I wear my hair up at the back, I wear tight jeans, waistcoasts, neck-scarves, winklepicker boots, and eyeliner. I, too, am an eccentric. And our influences and heroes are pretty much the same: Bill Hicks, Jack Kerouac, Jim Morrison, Stewart Lee....

Shit, "Forgetting Sarah Marshall" is one of my favourite films, and the soudtrack to "Get Him To The Greek" is one of my favourite albums.

I think my main problem with Russell Brand is that he is a very clever comedian (he proved this with his last show "Scandalous"), yet he relies on jokes which are nowhere near as good as he has proven his skills can produce. It annoys me that he can write excellent satirical jokes, but instead chooses to simply exploit his openly wild sex-life for humour. To me, it seems cheap. He's wasting talent.

I also have a HATRED of celebrity culture, and I can't help feeling he is the epitome of "celeb". Yet, I believe that he's a good enough actor, definitely has charisma, is very well dressed, and can be very funny. He claims one of his influences to be Bill Hicks, yet he's almost become evrything Bill Hicks stood against.

Russell Brand has proved that you can be eccentric and successful, and he has tested the boundaries of comedic controversy.

I do respect him. Fuck me, my first ever proper joke on stage was: "Before you say anthing, I'm not trying to be Russell Brand with the hair. Honestly, who'd wanna be Russell Brand? I would. he's rich and he's fucking Katy Perry."

And still, I can't bring myself to say that I truly like him. Is it the fact that I think people assume I'm trying to be him? Is it 'cause he is talented, and everything I should hate, but don't? Is it that I fear that if I ever became successful, that's what I'd become - a talented performer who would rather bask in the pseudo-glory of celebrity culture?

I don't know.



It's probably 'cause he can get laid and I can't.

Followers

Followers:

If you have many, you have popularity. If you have a few, you have loyalties. If you have one, you have a stalker.

First Ever Stand Up Gig

This my first ever stand up gig, not particularly good. I was nervous and the delivery's pretty shit, but hey ho! Check it out, or something....fam.

The Diary Of A Closet Psycho (#2)

This is something I knocked up quickly a few days ago. It's probably not as good as the other one. Needs work. Also, once I've got enough of these, they will start to form some order.

7/7/10

I was late today. I got up late and had to rush about. That fucking parrot kept following me on the floor and got in my way. I was ironing, it was under my feet. I was doing my hair, it was there. I was brushing my teeth while looking for my keys, and it was in my way shouting "Fuck" and "Cunt" and my name.
I got so fed up, so I stood on the fucker. I did it without much thought (instinctively, you could say). I just kept stomping and stomping. Watched its pewny, little head crack under my shoe, which I then had to clean, making me even more late.
I didn't have time to clean up what was left of the bird. I'll have to do that when I get home. No rest for the wicked.

The Diary Of A Closet Psycho (#1)

This is an idea I've had for a while about a character, the title's pretty self-explanatory. Please bare in mind, it's a first draft.


6/7/10

I'm fed up with Public Transport And I'm fed up with the ignorant pricks on Public Transport. One of these days, I'm gonna enter the London Underground with a 9mm. Just shoot the cunts. Gender? Race? Religion? None matter. I'm not prejudice, I won't discriminate.
I'll blow away every one of them that deserves it. The smelly twats who shove their armpits in your face. The lazy cunts who don't give up their seats to the pregnant and the elderly. The pricks who sprawl their legs across two seats when you need to sit down. The foreign students who openly choose to ignore the basic etiquette of the Underground. The useless, arrogant staff who're fed up with their own meaningless lives, so they try to disrupt yours.
And especially, the cunt who sticks chewing gum on the seats. I'd smile as I force the barrell past that cunt's tonsils, pull the trigger, and watch the back of their slap against the tube wall.

Welcome To Post-War Britain

"Welcome To Post-War Britain"

Blood drowns these once semi-celestial streets.
Blades protrude from the bodies of the youth, fins rising from oceans of flesh.
The youth shoot each other while the old shoot themselves; hospital walls turning a deep crimson.

The arthritis-ridden, poverty-stricken watch-maker works the time away, as the rich-unemployed-yet-fully-capable-mother-of-twelve-whore sits on his back, cigarette in one hand and a can in the other. A leech sucking on the Welfare State. Time is running out.

The Police saunter through the streets, stopping the Poets and the Saints as the teenage 'gangstas' stab the War Veterans for their wallets, the heroin-addicted mothers carelessly beat their children to death, and the paedophiles play their twisted games with the young.

Meanwhile, in a bin somewhere in London, Shakespeare sits with Blake, Byron & Lennon playing Poker - gambling away the last of their Respect.

And as the Chaos pulsates, a Raven perched on The Tower turns a ghostly white and lights a cigarette, watching its country die.

Stranger At The Station

Stranger At The Station

We met at the station, in a hazy world of newspapers
coffee cups
flattened sweet-wrappers
pigeon shit
and xenophobic Londoners.
Just a passing glance. Once commuter to another.
A split second connection, lifetime affection.
I've seen you a thousand times.
Each time, different clothes, different hair, different voice, different skin, different face, same person.
I've seen our future together.
First date meet the parents awkward sex-life finish college part-time jobs start Uni tiny flat scrounging for money beans on toast lager & vodka chilly Winter nights huddling together for warmth, graduate,
dead-end jobs first car redundancies debts tears laughter arguments sex a little luck new jobs promotions in the black new car Summer holiday in Greece,
surprise pregnancy youthful panics 9 months a bundle of joy a shit-filled nappy no sleep the big three-o relationship doubts troublesome times,
second child rekindled love dinner parties wine & cheese comfortable wages grey hairs sagging skin erectile dysfunction viagra menopause kids grown & leaving home,
too quiet at home buy dog health problems depression retirement crosswords & daytime TV dog dies parents die no sex first grandchild love for life,
a lump it'll be ok slow deterioration I love you death bed funeral sorrow & regrets just memories and a lonely death.
I love you, whoever you are.

The FUCK IT Manifesto

The FUCK IT Manifesto

"Fuck it" is a phrase uttered by many. It's a phrase which can signify anger, frustration, distress, and disregard. Yet, it is very rarely a sign of relief. A sign of liberation. But that shall now change.
"Fuck it" will be the cornerstone of a new, fresher outlook on life. A strange cocktail of optimism and pessimism, mixed with a drop of spontinaity.

First things first, this new outlook – this lifestyle, this Way Of Fuck It – isn't about being totally careless and lazy. It's not about saying, "I would do my work, but fuck it..." or "This relationship isn't working, fuck it!" No. There is a Dr Pepper attitude which structures this lifestyle. It's a lifestyle which says, "Fuck it! What's the worst that can happen?"


The Way Of Fuck It – Guide

1. This lifestyle isn't about finding excuses to be lazy. It isn't about disregarding your responsibilities. It isn't about being a self-centered prick. It's about seizing life by the balls, and squeezing hard for the seed of liberation.
2. The Way Of Fuck It is about seizing opportunities. It's about saying "Fuck it" to those things which hold us back, when they really shouldn't (i.e. Low self-esteem, ignorant others/bullies, the ridiculous media conformities, unfair authorities...). But it must be understood that some things which may appear to be holding us back, such as work or studies, are actually needed for Fuck It to work properly (for instance, money and knowledge).
3. Fuck It is a kind of productive nihilism. Nihilists have been known to say that life has no objective, as well as believing in total and absolute destructiveness. Those who believe in the Way Of Fuck It ("Fuckites") say that life may not have an objective, but they still strive for one, by breaking down those boundaries set up by ourselves and others which oppress us (mentally and socially), all in the benefit of liberation and self-discovery.
4. One thing which is key to Fuckites is that their uses of this lifestyle are always done with the intention of being productive, not for causing problems or conflicts (if this were to occur, it must be justifiable).
5. Fuckites can be seen as Pessimistic Optimists – they know life has the potential to be great, but also know that it'll probably be shit. It is this balance which fuels the Way Of Fuck It. It encourages Fuckites to search for the good aspects of life, all the while bearing in mind that they won't be easy to find and that they may not be found at all. It is this drive for the good, the great, the beautiful which provides the proverbial Lust For Life.
6. To reiterate, as well as clarify, Fuckites are not about drifting through life on the waves of the Welfare State or the pockets of families/friends, nor do they feel life should be centered entirely around them. Yes, their choices may appear to benefit them more, but they are also made to encourage others to adopt this lifestyle.

Fuckites are about loving life. Fuckites are about finding the good that is usually overshadowed. Fuckites are about preventing themselves from being oppressed Fuckites are about helping others and themselves. Fuckites are about not caring what people think. Fuckites are about embracing being outcasts. Fuckites are about fucking The Man. Fuckites are about saying "Fuck it".

Bourbon Street

I wrote this over the course of a few hours, adding a few lines every so often, while stoned & drunk in Amsterdam. I haven't edited it in anyway, so forgive the spelling mistakes and lack of proper structure. I thought it'd be cool to see where Daniel's head goes when intoxicated.

The title is a tribute to a bar called "Bourbon Street" in a back street of Amsterdam.

"Bourbon Street"

Odd cobbles cover the ground
blackened teeth of the space below

The Devil is near
                is here
                is in the bottom
                of your pipe.

He lurks in the steamy sewers,
crawl through the gutter
to his foul establishment.

In every pill, pipe &
prostitute pussy he waits.
Ready to greet you,
beat you and swipe your
leather wallet.
Perched like a raven

on that ripped bar-stool
he waits. A Marlboro
pinched between his middle
and index, his wrist
limp with lathargic style.
Knees bent, money spent,
fuck the rent.
   All in black with
that burgundy tie - an inch
wide, wider than he's willing
to give.

Cuban heels curled
around that ricketty stool,
a half empty
Bourbon on a tattered green
bar mat.

5 o'clock shadow 24 hours
a day. This is the only
shadow this bastard possesses.

Make a bet, sell your
soul for the price of
a fat whore's service.
Roll the dice, stubb the
butt, slam the drink,
leave the bar.

The wind beats you raw.
The ice tricks your
feet, grab the frozen
lamp post. A silhouette
hunched in the
pseudo-warmth of its
golden glow.

Eyes bloodshot, knuckles
blistered, smile sharper than
the complimentry razor in the
dive he passes out in.

She's had her eye
locked on him for days.
Her sniper-scope vision.
A pack of fags and a
bourbon - no ice. Never any ice.

How he slowly - methodically -
raised that cigarette up to
his lips, sucked it in with
lacrymose eyes, out of the
nose like a dragon, and
then a drop of the
wrist to the dented, tin
ashtray. It captivated
her. So simple, so dark,
always the same.

She was falling for
him. The Nameless Wino in
the corner. On that bar stool,
his back to the jukebox.
All Jazz & Blues.

He liked it there. No-one
bothered him. No-one dared
or cared.

The pasly wallpaper went up
decades ago, now it's
peeling off like the skin
of a leprosy victim.
Candle-lit lamps are clamped
around the walls. Murky
lights in a tobacco induced
fog.

The Usuals are deflated or
shaking in the same old
wooden chairs. Scratched &
wounded from years of
abuse. All men with lost
loves, broken families, and
wasted lives. They search
for the way back into the
past at the bottom of their
glasses.

This dive was once the
pumping heart of the street
it sits on, now it's
dying like a waning
cancer patient.
Its inhabitants are the
tumors, but if it wasn't
for them, it'd be dead a lot quicker.
Catch-22 with 14 usuals.
Not dedicated, just too lazy
to try their luck anywhere
else. Not many
bartenders would put up
with the shit Quentin
does, and has for
a very long time.

The bar brawls have
now become sqwabling
matches with the occasional
right-hook. This is the
only excitement he ever
gets. If it wasn't
for those sons of
bitches, he would've hung
himself just like his wife
did 7 years prior.
But with a name like
Quentin, suicidal
thoughts are a regular
occurance. They have been
for nearly all of his miserable
52 years of his lonely life.

The barmaid - Lucy - is
an old bike. Every pink-nosed
pervert has had a ride on
Lucy. Every one of them on
this side of town anyway.
Buy her a few large
white russians and she'll
gargle your lust-juice behind
the rubbish bins around the
back of the bar.

Vernon would curl himself
over the piano by the
door, tapping at the
keys. On the rare instances
when the door would be
opened and the wind
would blow in, he'd shiver
and start to play
"Unforgettable" by Nat King Cole.
It's the only one
he could remember.


[In "The 'Dam Diary", I drew a little picture of a glass of Bourbon,
an ashtray with a lit cigarette and a stubbed out cigarette.]

It was a Tuesday night,
the coffee-stain moon
shone through
the greasy windows.
A shadow of Vernon's
unconscious body propt up
on the piano was cast
on the sticky floor.

Lucy was drunk and flirting
with each of the usuals, her
blouse almost entirely open,
her big, sagged tits
on show.

Quentin was pouring over
the account books behind
the bar, fighting back the
tears. It was all slipping
away from him.

The door opening like a bodily
joint in an early morning daze.
In he strolled, stonewash jeans
with folded bottoms, worn-down
black cowboy boots, a white
shirt & grey suede jacket.

His hair was bushy and unclean,
like a farmer's hound. An untidy,
maroon beard clung to his lips
and chin.
His eyes were small and tired.
Desperation hid behind them.

He made it to the bar, ordered
a scotch, and sat down.
Nothing out of the ordinary, apart
from the fact that a stranger
was in the bar. An alien amongst
alcoholics.

Vernon, now awake from a cold shiver,
slowly tapped the keys in that
unforgetable order. He knew
something wasn't right.

Lucy sauntered over to him, her
chest pumping up & down with
excitement at the prospect of
fresh meat.
A quick line, show her interest.
He glances at her, smiling slightly
at her drunken state. She thinks
she's so sexy.
Another flirtatious line. This time
he laughs - in her dreams. But
Lucy doesn't have dreams. Just
vivid nightmares.

She tries to playfully
run her fingers around
his neck. He twitches
and moves away from her.
She's drawn blood. He
rubs his neck, she tries
to comfort him - apologise.
He pushes her away, and
she loses her balance.
Screams, shouts, uncharacteristic noise.

Quentin hadn't been paying
attention until now. He didn't
say anything, he just looked
up from his additions,
subtractions, and debts.

Lucy was really shouting
now. Questioning the stranger's
sexuality, like a true
scorned slut. The stranger
was getting irritable, Vernon
had been reduced to rhthymatically
hitting a solo key, him
in the corner by the
jukebox just casually stared
like he knew what was
coming.

Lucy started hitting him now.
Thudding at his back,
screaming out insults to
him. He soon started
hitting her hands away,
thwacking down angry birds.

She got more and more
angry. The violence and
tension growing, burning
up the place.

Then he just snapped.
And a swift left-hook
to her jaw and she was
down. He bent over her,
pummeling her, stomping on
her flabby stomach.

She screamed, begged, cried
for mercy. Vernon huddled
deeper next to the piano,
still playing that same key,
shying away from the brutal
scene in front of him.

The usuals looked on
in disbelief and primal
excitement. It was something
new, fresh, exhillarating.


No-one knows how long it
was before Quentin jumped
in and stopped the stranger
from killing Lucy. Perhaps he
thought she had had enough,
or he was just as
blown away by it like the
usuals?

The stranger swiftly
left, leaving Lucy nearly
dead in a pool of vomit,
saliva and blood. She was
unconscious but still breathing.

As Quentin went to call for
an ambulance, over in the
corner, the man by the
jukebox sucked on his Marlboro.
Perched on his bar stool, cigarette
inbetween his middle & index, he
looked over at what was
left of Lucy, and with a
dead face he said:

"Well, I didn't expect that."

Frankie Boyle VS Katie Price - Wits VS Tits

What better way to start a blog than with controversial comedy!

In December 2010, Frankie Boyle made a joke about "glamour model" Katie Price (AKA "Jordan", or "that money-hungry slag") and her son, Harvey, on his (Boyle's, not Harvey's) Channel 4 show "Tramadol Nights". Harvey, son of Katie Price and Dwight Yorke, has autism and septo-optic dysplasma which has caused him to go blind. Which is no doubt a sad state of affairs, and he must be a brave little boy (no joke, just sincerity).

Boyle, known for his dark, satirical sense of humour, made 2 jokes about Harvey. The first regarding custody of him between Katie Price and her ex-husband, failed popstar and all-round twat, Peter Andre. This joke was: "Jordan and Peter Andre are still fighting each other over custody of Harvey - eventually one of them will lose and have to keep him."

This was then followed by a joke regarding her current (soon to be ex) husband, the cross-dressing cage fighter Alex Reid. This joke was: "I have a theory about the reason Jordan married a cage fighter - she needed a man strong enough to stop Harvey from fucking her."

Now, I was both shocked and in hysterical laughter at this joke when it aired. Some of you may feel this is a vile and viscious attack on a dysabled child. WRONG! But I'll get to that in a wee bit.

Suffice to say, Katie Price demanded a public apology as it had offended her, her family, and some mothers of dysabled children. And, obviously, Frankie Boyle refused. This then became a big hoo-har which is still going on.

I think one thing has been foolishly ignored  - the complexity of Boyle's second joke. Let's analyse this joke together, shall we?

Boyle says: "I have a theory about the reason Jordan married a cage fighter - she needed a man strong enough to stop Harvey from fucking her."

"The reason". What Boyle is saying is that she had a motive, other than love, to marry Alex Reid. She wanted to something from him, to exploit him, just as she has with her son and her personal life.

Katie Price is the epitome of "celebrity" -  talentless prick who gets recognition and money for doing pretty much sweet fuck all.

She has made a fortune out of getting her plastic tits out, having other people write books for her, and selling her shitty, uninteresting story to glam mags. She has had her sex life, marriages, divorces, and son's dysability plaster all over mind-numbingly shit magazines that I wouldn't even consider to use as toilet paper if I had dysentery on a desert island.

Since the dawn of comedy, comedians have mocked those who perhaps shouldn't be mocked. But note that Boyle's joke isn't a pointless attack on an innocent child, but rather a very clever piece of social commentary. By making a sick joke about Harvey, he is saying to Katie Price "don't complain, you've allowed this to happen". Which she has. If she truly did care about Harvey, she wouldn't have thrust him into the media spotlight since his birth.

This begs the question, who should people (including the offended mothers) be angry at? A satirist with a openly dark sense of humour, or a woman who got famous by getting her tits out, selling her story to the media, and who exploited her son's disability so that she could make money and further her obsession for fame?