Tag Archives: jokes

Young Jamie: Portrait of a Serial Douchebag (Part 9)

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I was ahead of my time as a joke writer. At the age of seven I’d already decided that set-ups were superfluous. The real secret to comedy magic, I knew, lay in omitting integral qualifying components, spelling shit wrong and moving straight to the punch line. Hell, sometimes a free-floating punch line is all you need. ‘To get to the other side! He smells terrible! I’ve got some cream for that! I’m here all fucking week, ladies and gentlemen.‘ So why, you may ask, is the narrator baa-ing when there’s been no mention of sheep? Who cares??! This shit’s funny! Regrettably, that joke is still funnier than anything I’ve written since. Nice screwdriver joke, though, Young Me. It’s not my favourite screwdriver joke of all time, though. My favourite screwdriver joke is the one where this nun walks up to a broken-down bus, and she sees its driver mucking about with wires and panels. He’s desperately trying to repair it, and she looks him up and down and then shouts to him: ’Do you need a screwdriver?’, and he shouts back, ‘Mmmmmooooooooooo!’

I was ahead of my time as a joke writer. At the age of seven I’d already decided that set-ups were superfluous. The real secret to comedy magic, I knew, lay in omitting integral qualifying components, spelling shit wrong and moving straight to the punch line. Hell, sometimes a free-floating punch line is all you need. ‘To get to the other side! He smells terrible! I’ve got some cream for that! I’m here all fucking week, ladies and gentlemen.‘ So why, you may ask, is the narrator baa-ing when there’s been no mention of sheep? Who cares??! This shit’s funny! Regrettably, that joke is still funnier than anything I’ve written since. Nice screwdriver joke, though, Young Me. It’s not my favourite screwdriver joke of all time, though. My favourite screwdriver joke is the one where this nun walks up to a broken-down bus, and she sees its driver mucking about with wires and panels. He’s desperately trying to repair it, and she looks him up and down and then shouts to him: ’Do you need a screwdriver?’, and he shouts back, ‘Mmmmmooooooooooo!’

Young Jamie: Portrait of a Serial Douchebag (Part 4)

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OK, so I was 6 years old and my mum let me watch Billy Connolly. So what? Exposure to Billy Connolly at such a young age had no fucking effect on my fucking development what-so-fucking-ever, so get fucked on that score if that's your fucking argument, you fucking bastard. You're nothing but a wee fucking jobby. Anyway, I told my teacher about it in my diary, and she didn't seem to give a fuck, so that's okay. I really like how I've really nailed Connolly in this picture; it's like looking at a photograph of him. Not a single real-life detail is left out, from his blue face and Ming the Merciless beard, to his naked yellow body and massive, heavily bleeding gash wound across his neck and shoulders. It's like a van Gogh (only by virtue of the blood running down Connolly's face and body). Anyway, he's one of my earliest comedy heroes, and if he knew back then that his routines would act as an inspiration for my own forays into stand-up, he probably would have killed himself.

OK, so I was 6 years old and my mum let me watch Billy Connolly. So what? Exposure to Billy Connolly at such a young age had no negative fucking effect on my fucking development what-so-fucking-ever, so get fucked on that score if that’s your fucking argument, you fucking bastard. You’re nothing but a wee jobby. Anyway, I told my teacher about it in my diary, and she didn’t seem to give a fuck, about the possibility of me picking up naughty fucking words or becoming more aggressive, so what in the name of shite’s cunt are you getting involved for, pal? Hmmm. I really like how I’ve nailed Connolly in this picture; it’s like looking at a photograph of him. Not a single authentic detail has been left out; from his trademark blue face and Ming the Merciless beard, to his naked yellow body and the massive, heavily bleeding wound across his neck and shoulders. It’s like a van Gogh – not the artistic style – mainly because of the blood running down Connolly’s face and body. Oh, and we all know how much Connolly hated conventional stages back in the early days, preferring instead to tell jokes on top of a giant log. Anyway, he’s one of my earliest comedy heroes, and if he’d known back then that his routines would act as an inspiration for my own forays into stand-up, he probably would have killed himself.