Young Jamie: Kindergarten Cock (Part 2)

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What a nice, caring and sharing child I must've been. You can see from the first panel on the left-hand-side of the page that I've got a new comic. You can also see that I'm rubbing this fact in the face of a poor, sad little baseball cap wearing boy. 'CHECK OUT MY COMIC, YOU PENNILESS OAF! I HOPE YOU'VE GOT GOOD EYESIGHT, PLEB, BECAUSE THIS IS AS CLOSE AS YOU'RE FUCKING GETTING TO IT!' The wee capped guy probably isn't that bothered, to be honest. He's got bigger problems: like being trapped in a cement block without any arms. PS: What in the name of cemented children is a LOINheart? And why was I not content with a single one? Perhaps the comic was pitched at kids who enjoyed raw meat, and so its publishers routinely gave away strange butcher-meat hybrids. FREE WITH THIS EXCITING ISSUE - HALF A POUND OF COCKBRISKET.

What a nice, caring and sharing child I must’ve been. You can see from the first panel on the left-hand-side of the page that I’ve got a new comic. You can also see that I’m rubbing this fact in the face of a poor, sad little baseball cap wearing boy. ‘CHECK OUT MY COMIC, YOU PENNILESS OAF! I HOPE YOU’VE GOT GOOD EYESIGHT, PLEB, BECAUSE THIS IS AS CLOSE AS YOU’RE FUCKING GETTING TO IT!’ The wee capped guy probably isn’t that bothered, to be honest. He’s got bigger problems: like being trapped in a cement block without any arms. PS: What in the name of cemented children is a LOINheart? And why was I not content with a single one? Perhaps the comic was pitched at kids who enjoyed raw meat, and so its publishers routinely gave away strange butcher-meat hybrids. FREE WITH THIS EXCITING ISSUE – HALF A POUND OF COCKBRISKET.

Jamie Andrew on Jamie Andrew

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I remember being 18 when Jamie Andrew – the other Jamie Andrew – was in the papers following a mountaineering accident in France. Naturally, I cut the headlines from the front pages and selotaped them to my wall – as you would. Jamie lost his limbs – and his friend – when a snowstorm hit as he was scaling Mount Blanc He was lucky to survive, and paid a high price for it.

Many years later I set up a website to showcase various writing projects and found that I couldn’t use my own name as the domain for the site, because the rather more famous Jamie Andrew had nabbed it. Once everything was up and running I tried googling myself, only to find that I was probably somewhere on page 6,532,000 in the rankings thanks to my brave namesake. I called my website ‘The Magic Torch’ to get around the problem.

Another few years passed. I started playing on the Scottish stand-up circuit as an open spot, which I still am, and reflected on the impossibility of gaining recognition because of the Jamie Andrew situation. There was no malice in this, but I thought I could put together a darkly humorous set by acting like the kind of person who would personally and childishly object to finding his promise of ‘fame’ snatched away from him..

I’d hoped that my on-stage rant would be taken with a pinch of salt, given that it’s very over-the-top and cartoonish. I wanted the audience to realise that being jealous of a quadruple amputee and coveting his fame instantly turned me into an incredibly tragic figure, and certainly not one to be admired. I’d hoped that the laughter would ultimately come not at the other Jamie’s expense, but at mine. Because it was so blatantly pathetic and ridiculous. And because the set wouldn’t be funny at all if the other Jamie wasn’t braver, more noble, more decent and a stronger human being than me. Otherwise I really would just be having a pop at a disabled guy.

I’m not trying to claim that the jokes are somehow devilishly subtle and provide a profound statement on the human condition, or that I’m some angry genius savant, or any guff like that. I’m an amateur stand-up who does coarse and often sick jokes. Tongue-in-cheek, but hardly Hicks.

I only say all of this because tonight I performed my set to an audience which I later discovered included some of Jamie’s relatives. Statistically, it was inevitable that one day this would happen. I’ve always defended my set on the grounds outlined above, but this is harder to do when you’re faced with people who have been directly affected by the issues you’re joking about, and love the person around whom they revolve. I suppose it’s easy to think of a person in the abstract; not really existing outside of a comedy routine.

Well, there was nothing abstract about being advised to sit upstairs to ensure my physical safety after one of Jamie’s relatives became understandably angry. I felt like Salmand Rushdie.

I know I should probably stick with the old maxim, ‘Never complain, never explain,’ but I felt the need to explain that although I tread a fine line in my set I’ve never regarded the other Jamie with anything less than complete awe and respect. I’ve also read his book, which is both heart-wrenching and inspirational in equal measure.

And let’s not forget that – given the amount of time I’ve spent talking about him in my set, –  without him: I’d be nothing.

Now That’s What I Call Funny – @ Glasgow International Comedy Festival

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I’m taking part in this three-hander of comedy in Glasgow this March, as part of the Glasgow International Comedy Festival. Do come and have a giggle with me, Richard and Ross. And tell every person you meet about it, and get them to do the same. Your ticket money means the difference between me getting a train home after the shows, or hitch-hiking on the M9.

Click here to buy tickets, which would be a smart move because a) it’s a cosy and compact venue with a limited number of seats, and b) the tickets will go like hot cakes that have been sealed in a rocket and fired into the heart of the sun to make them even hotter. Megan Fox will be in the rocket, rubbing the hot cakes all over her nipples. You get the idea: the tickets will sell fast, right?.

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Young Jamie: Kindergarten Cock (Part 1)

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What the hell is wrong with my teacher? Ever heard of reading between the lines? She just put a tick. If I were my teacher, I’d be writing: ‘You were fighting a fully-grown man? What the fuck is wrong with your family?’ Especially considering that Steven wasn’t just administering a few kidney punches or chest jabs: he was jumping on me from a great height, WWF-style, dressed in a black cat suit. This isn’t a Primary 3 diary: this is the first chapter of ‘A Child Called It!’ Most distressingly of all I appear to have turned into a rabbit. Anyway, glad I started playing with the robot. Maybe it can teach me how to spell ‘Shon’ properly.

The Recipe for Kitchen Nightmares US

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Gordon Ramsey Kitchen Nightmares

I know Kitchen Nightmares is a heavily-manufactured, manipulative piece of reality TV guff, but I can’t help but love it. I also can’t help but notice how each episode is constructed pretty much identically. You’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all. But you still watch them all, because they’re immensely entertaining. God bless you, Ramsey, you angry little shit. Here’s how things go down: every single time.

  • Ramsay arrives at the restaurant, and makes some bitchy comments about the decor/menu/the discovery of a rat on the doorstep.
  • The owner tells Ramsay that the restaurant is losing money, which they can’t understand because the food is awesome. Ramsay’s concerned frown and receptive eyes betray the fact that within the hour he’ll have them in tears after shouting at them like they’re the unwanted step-child of a second marriage.
  • Ramsay orders three items from the menu, and declares each in turn the worst dogshit he’s ever tasted in his life. The serving waitress agrees with Ramsay’s assessment, and adds that the owner, her employer, is a waste of space as a human being, and a terrible manager. She’s pretty sure the owner won’t mind her honesty once the show is broadcast.
  • Ramsay rampages into the kitchen and discovers a rotting corpse beside the pizza oven. The owner gets defensive and says, ‘What’s your problem? That’s our mascot: Davey.’ Ramsay then discovers that none of the food is fresh, and all of it is kept in plastic bags beside a heater, next to a cardboard box filled with arsenic and rat shit.
  • Ramsey’s jaw muscles go into over-drive as he unleashes a volley of vile swear words at the owner. The words are bleeped so we viewers are spared the horror, but Ramsey’s such a clever curser that even the rhythm of his bleeps spells out a verbal attack in Morse Code. The owner sulks like a baby, and then tries to blame the staff/their partner/the Norse God Thor for how shit they now realise their restaurant is.
  • Ramsey gathers all of the staff together. He itemises the worst things about the restaurant: the Chef’s Specials written in dust on the wall; the fact that semen is an ingredient of the clam chowder; the twenty-three cats that live in the dining room. He then says ‘bland’ and ‘no passion’ sixty-three times whilst jerking his finger around like a conductor having a stroke. The chef says he was only following orders and blames the owner for everything, including 9/11. The chef goes on to confess that he would rather brush his teeth with bird shit and gargle a vial of AIDS than eat the diseased muck his kitchen serves to customers. ‘Anyway,’ says the chef, ‘I’m a bricklayer and I don’t even like cooking.’ He further confesses that ‘he’s never heard of eggs before.’ Ramsey stares at the chef like the chef’s just sharted on a child, and then calls him a c***.
  • The owner threatens to kill the chef and then accuses the staff of being lazy thieves who spend their time texting instead of working. In fact, it’s so bad that they text the customers asking for their orders, and then text these to the chef, who promptly ignores them. A mouthy Polish waitress tells Ramsey that the owner spends every night crying at the bar, cradling his dead mum’s ashes and throwing olives at customers. The owner throws an olive at her, but a beef olive this time. The rest of the staff just sit there smiling and blinking because they’ve just arrived from Puerto Rico and can’t speak English yet. Ramsey tells them all to fuck off, and storms out.
  • Ramsey observes a typical night at the restaurant. The owner thinks, ‘This is my chance to show that British bastard how awesome my business is.’ We all think: ‘This show’s not called Kitchen Awesomeness, you fool.’ Lots of customers pour in because they want to be on TV. They agree that each dish on the menu is dogshit, and send everything back. A feral cat jumps up and steals some salmon from a customer’s plate, which is snatched from its mouth by a rat. The rat gets involved in a salmon-related mouth tug-of-war with a cockroach, which is only ended when a waiter crushes them both under his heel. The waiter places their fresh remains on a plate and serves it to another customer. He drizzles some sauce over it and says it’s their ‘Vermin of the Day.’ Ramsey rustles up a smile that conveys both smugness and hatred.
  • In the kitchen, Ramsey sees the chef vomiting over a breast of chicken, and then chucking it straight into the frying pan. Ramsey goes bat-shit mental, and the chef just shrugs, and then scratches his balls. With the chicken. The owner, too pissed by now to walk, starts crying because he can’t live up to his dead parent’s restaurant-running standards/is about to lose his marriage/can’t afford to keep his business going/it’ll make good TV.
  • Ramsey screams, ‘Stop what you’re doing! I’m shutting this kitchen down! You’re going to bloody kill someone.’ Sure enough, a customer keels over into a bowl of spunky clam chowder. The owner drags the customer’s corpse into the kitchen and puts it next to Davey.
  • The next day the entire staff watches a film on a giant cinema screen. It features every single person in town telling them how shit their restaurant is, and how much of a cock the owner is. The owner either a) cries and vows not to be such a cock in future or b) says it’s a Jewish conspiracy.
  • Ramsey gets the set designers from Prisoner Cell Block H to revamp the restaurant. Then he devises a new menu and cooks up some samples. Every dish is now ‘rustic.’ When Ramsey uses the word ‘rustic’ we know he really means ‘microscopically tiny portions at double the price.’ The staff are like, ‘Wow, these taste so good it’s like a world-class chef made them.’ Uh-huh. Because they were. By now the audience know that there’s zero chance Chef Cum Chowder is going to be able to match that standard once Ramsey buggers off.
  • Despite some before-the-last-ad-break editing that suggests relaunch night is going to be a disaster – it’s not. Well, we can’t have Ramsey’s reputation wrecked by a bunch of filthy plebs. Ramsey tells them they achieved it by themselves, and should be proud, even though they clearly didn’t, and they shouldn’t. Ramsey hugs them all, which is tense and unnerving, like watching a cobra giving somebody a hug.
  • Ramsey strides outside and gives an awkward recap to the audience, during which he swishes his finger like it’s a fencing sword, and keeps jerking his gaze down to the ground and back up at the camera again like a serial killer battling ADHD.
  • The restaurant closes down.

The Best Shittest Films: Twilight (2008)

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twi4I don’t like Twilight. Hardly surprising, given that the film wasn’t produced with my nearly-dead demographic in mind. I’m an incredibly miserable, hairy and lumpy man in my early 30s, not an angsty, hormonally-unbalanced teenage girl who dreams nightly of being violated by moody, scowling vampires. In fact, the whole process of rubbishing Twilight is about as futile as criticising the dearth of symbolism and poor cinematography in an episode of The Chuckle Brothers.

That being said, I consider Twilight a boring, irritating, and thoroughly worthless piece of shite, so I’m going to do it anyway.

They'll drink your blood.

They’ll drink your blood.

Let’s put our cards on the table. If you’re a guy, you’ve probably watched this film a) because of a girl, b) because you’re a girl, or c) because you’re a connoisseur of crap films and enjoy shooting sarcastic wisecracks at the screen (or so you keep telling yourself, Mr b) ). And, girls? If you’re young, young at heart, or young at mind (a polite way of calling you a drooling, bum-houking simpleton), or all three, then you’re going to love this film. Vampirism aside, it ticks all of the traditional romantic boxes for a teen love film. There’s the new-in-town, pretty-but-awkward girl, Bella Swan (Kristen Stewart), whose personality has been forged in a cold fire of loneliness and intra-parental antipathy. There’s the mysterious, brooding outsider, Edward Cullen (played by a young Charlie Brooker), who puts up emotional ice-screens to protect his fragile, wittle, achy bweaky heart from being broken. Where the plot differs slightly from that of, say, Grease, is by virtue of its male protagonist being an immortal vampire who feasts hungrily on human blood.

Fit like, min?

Fit like, min?

The two kooks are brought together when Edward intervenes to rescue Bella from an out-of-control car, and in the process reveals to her his superhuman strength and speed (car-crossed lovers, you might say). Bella quickly figures out the entirety of Edward’s secret, which isn’t that much of a puzzler, to be honest: the deathly pale skin; the weird and pale family; the aversion to sunny days; everyone steering clear of him: he’s clearly from Aberdeen.

I’ll admit that the first twenty minutes or so of the movie weren’t irredeemably awful, and I was ready to give myself a slap on the wrist for letting my preconceptions over-ride my critical faculties. And then I realised that my preconceptions were bang on the money, and the film really was a massive and steamingly hot, six-storeyed tower of giraffe shit.

Call me cynical if you will, but it’s the speed and nature of the lovers’ relationship that had me groaning the most. Guys, I’m talking to you again. Bella and Edward, a human and a vampire, fall into deep, I-will-kill-and-die-for-you love within about four seconds of meeting. Maybe I can’t remember what teenage love feels like anymore, but Bella comes across like she could boil rhinos, never mind bunnies, and Edward seems like an emotionally maladjusted crackpot who’s a mere few missed meals away from using a hitchhiker’s jugular as a straw for his Irn Bru.

I'm furiously playing with my golden Gamesmaster joystick.

I’m furiously playing with my golden Gamesmaster joystick.

And let’s not forget that Edward – made immortal during the First World War by a bite from his now-foster-father – is 108, despite outwardly having remained a 17-year-old boy. He’s 108… she’s 17. I know my girlfriend’s younger than me, but come on? A 91-year age difference? Imagine if the film had opened with Patrick Moore mind-raping a boy and stealing his body, which he then spent the remainder of the film using to shag teenage girls… Actually, that’s a great idea for a film. Especially now that he’s dead. We’ll call it ‘The Pie at Night – New Moore.’

*(please note that this review draft has been on my computer for years and I’m only just amending it. I could have used a Jimmy Savile joke there, and didn’t. Too much class, you see?)

Bella meets Edward’s nutty vampire family; luckily for her they’re good vampires, in the respect that they eschew chewing humans in favour of getting stuck in about animals. Not long after this we’re introduced to some bad, human-eating vampires, who show up just as Bella and the Cullens are  enjoying a baseball game during a thunderstorm – isn’t that always the way? (Little note on the baseball game itself: it looked and felt so Quidditch-like that I half hoped and expected Harry Potter to whizz past on his broomstick, if only so that the bad vampires could catch him and rape his dead corpse) (I know that’s tautology, but there’s something so satisfying about a dead corpse: especially Harry Potter’s) (sorry for all the brackets).

twi3So, ace, right? We’ve got ourselves some bad vampires who want to kill Bella and rumble with her boyfriend’s family! Amazing! Some action, some bloodshed!! This film’s about to get good, right? RIght?? Wrong. By this point in the movie there had been twenty-million too many crummy pseudo-philosophical Bella voice-overs, and at least eighty-thousand million too many sickening professions of eternal love and sacrifice for the chase segment of the movie to kindle within me any sense of excitement. Not even the fact that Edward himself had problems controlling his urge to eat Bella – despite his insane love for her – could inch me closer to the edge of my seat. I just didn’t – and couldn’t – give a fuck. Bon appetit, mate. Have a wee chew on her thigh bones, Eddie. Sook the meat off them like they’re a pair of barbecue spare ribs from Wongs’.

I just wanted it all to end. End fast. And end like 30 Days of Night: with half a town torn to death and a man frittering away like burnt toast in a hurricane.

Avoid. These vampires are a total bunch of fangies.

Young Jamie: Portrait of a Serial Douchebag (Part 10)

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Was I trying to fuck my dog, or asphyxiate it. Or both? Maybe I had a silk noose and an orange in there, too. Yes, I’d crawl into my dog’s bed, wrap it tightly in a sheet until it started choking, and then let it have a gulp of air seconds before its terrible death. Then I went away. I don’t know why I thought the addition of the phrase ‘the light was off’ was necessary to the understanding of the piece, but it sure adds a whole meaty dollop of sinister to proceedings. I might as well have written: ‘And then I drank from his knife wound.’ Surreal and sinister accompanying picture, though. The picture bears almost no relation to the accompanying text. In the picture, it looks like I’m holding an Etch-a-Sketch captive in a dingy basement dungeon, and I’ve had to cut him for stepping out of line.

Was I trying to fuck my dog, or asphyxiate it. Or both? Maybe I had a silk noose and an orange in there, too. Yes, I’d crawl into my dog’s bed, wrap it tightly in a sheet until it started choking, and then let it have a gulp of air seconds before its terrible death. Then I went away. I don’t know why I thought the addition of the phrase ‘the light was off’ was necessary to the understanding of the piece, but it sure adds a whole meaty dollop of sinister to proceedings. I might as well have written: ‘And then I drank from his knife wound.’ Surreal and sinister accompanying picture, though. The picture bears almost no relation to the accompanying text. In the picture, it looks like I’m holding an Etch-a-Sketch captive in a dingy basement dungeon, and I’ve had to cut him for stepping out of line.

The Answer Bag Ball Bag – Part 3

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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!’

The Answer Bag Ball Bag – Part 2

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More Answer Bag Ball Baggery next weekend, folks. 

The Answer Bag Ball Bag – Part 1

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Young Jamie: Portrait of a Serial Douchebag (Part 8)

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At first glance nothing seems to be too wrong with this picture. We’re going up to Tasha’s place to celebrate my friend’s (aka my step-sister’s) birthday. That’s normal, right? Wrong. Tasha’s a dog. I thought so highly of my step-grandparents that I airbrushed them from history, and even ascribed ownership of their house to a dog. Hey, it could happen in real life. I‘ve certainly dealt with solicitors dodgy enough to embark (geddit!!) on such deals: ‘Well, Rover, do you want to accept the offer of £45,000? That’s one bark for yes, two for no. Oh, and lick your balls if you want me to take an extra ten per cent… Goooooood.’ Never mind that, though. Let’s admire my grasp on reality through the medium of artistry. Hmmmm. Interesting picture. Tables, as we all know, needn’t rest exclusively upon floors. They can also be stabbed into a dog’s back; all the better to transport yellow hedgehogs that have been set alight. Looking at the picture itself my main question would have to be: what in the name of Jesus were we about to do to Tasha the dog? Maybe I’d watched Animal Farm on VHS, but the wrong one. You know… the bad one. Don’t pretend you don’t know the one I’m talking about. I’m pretty sure George Orwell never included a chapter about a women being pecked in the minge by a duck, or a guy being whacked off by a chimp. If you haven’t seen the naughty version of Animal Farm, here’s the tagline for the movie: ‘All animals are sexy, but some animals are more sexy than others.’

At first glance nothing seems to be too wrong with this picture. We’re going up to Tasha’s place to celebrate my friend’s (aka my step-sister’s) birthday. That’s normal, right? Wrong. Tasha’s a dog. I thought so highly of my step-grandparents that I airbrushed them from history, and even ascribed ownership of their house to a dog. Hey, it could happen in real life. I‘ve certainly dealt with solicitors dodgy enough to embark (geddit!!) on such deals: ‘Well, Rover, do you want to accept the offer of £45,000? That’s one bark for yes, two for no. Oh, and lick your balls if you want me to take an extra ten per cent… Goooooood.’ Never mind that, though. Let’s admire my grasp on reality through the medium of stick drawings. Hmmmm. Interesting picture. Tables, as we all know, needn’t rest exclusively upon floors. Tables can also be stabbed into a dog’s back; all the better to transport yellow hedgehogs that have been set on fire, apparently. How bizarre. It looks like the dog is serving an unusual canape at a really fucked up version of the Ambassador’s reception: ‘Ah, meester dog, weeth thees charred woodland mammal you are really spoiling us!’ Looking at the picture itself, though, my main question would have to be: what in the name of Jesus were we about to do to Tasha the dog? Maybe my young self had just been corrupted by watching Animal Farm on VHS, but the wrong one. You know… the bad one. Not the one that’s an allegory about totalitarian states. Don’t pretend you don’t know the one I’m talking about. You know, not the George Orwell one… I’m pretty sure Orwell never included a chapter about a woman being pecked in the minge by a duck, or a guy getting whacked off by a chimp. If you haven’t seen the naughty version of Animal Farm, here’s the tagline for the movie: ‘All animals are sexy, but some animals are more sexy than others.’

Young Jamie: Portrait of a Serial Douchebag (Part 7)

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What I love about this entry is the tone of persecution, and the stubborn refusal to accept any responsibility whatsoever. DAMN YOU GOD! WILL THOUEST NOT BE SATISFIED UNTIL I HAVE NOT ONE UNRIPPED KNEE IN MY SCHOOL TROUSERS? Clearly I hadn’t stolen my sister’s sand timer, and clearly I hadn’t then broken it. Don’t you see? I was fitted up! Not an amazing re-enactment of the crime in any case. It looks like a black skittle with rolling pins for arms is about to smash up a warp core. GREAT IDEA ALERT: kids should be employed to sketch up real-life scenes for Crimewatch. ‘Did you see an elongated stick man with fire for hair and bikes for legs acting suspiciously in Norwich town centre last Friday? We’d like to hear from you.’

What I love about this entry is the tone of persecution, and the stubborn refusal to accept any responsibility whatsoever. DAMN YOU GOD! WILL THOUEST NOT BE SATISFIED UNTIL I HAVE NOT ONE UNRIPPED KNEE IN MY SCHOOL TROUSERS? Clearly I hadn’t stolen my sister’s sand timer, and clearly I hadn’t then broken it. Don’t you see? I was fitted up! Not an amazing re-enactment of the crime in any case. It looks like a black skittle with rolling pins for arms is about to smash up a warp core. GREAT IDEA ALERT: kids should be employed to sketch up real-life scenes for Crimewatch. ‘Did you see an elongated stick man with fire for hair and bikes for legs acting suspiciously in Norwich town centre last Friday? We’d like to hear from you.’

Young Jamie: Portrait of a Serial Douchebag (Part 6)

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What a tough child I was. Watching Jaws 2, and then going swimming. Fear came knocking, I answered, and I kicked its ass. Up yours, sharks! Kiss my armbands, you finned motherfuckers! Technically, though, I wasn’t really going swimming. I was going ‘swinging the baths’, whatever the fuck that means. From looking at the corresponding picture, it seems that ‘swinging the baths’ involves recreating ‘The Ascent of Man’ in a frightfully multi-coloured way. Apparently black is the least evolved colour, or so said my disgustingly racist little brain. But, hey, never mind that: softball! Fucking softball! Awesome! Em… is that softball? Really? Maybe it’s not. Maybe it’s a Frenchman defending the Arc de Triomphe against a blue-haired caveman on a very sunny day using only a giant spoon… which DID happen on one of our family holidays… Anyway, through analysing my pictures it‘s clear that watching Jaws 2 caused rigor mortis, and watching Doctor Who caused me to transform into a wooden chair, which in turn sat upon an even less realistic chair.

What a tough child I was. Watching Jaws 2, and then going swimming. Fear came knocking, I answered, and I kicked its ass. Up yours, sharks! Kiss my armbands, you finned motherfuckers! Technically, though, I wasn’t really going swimming. I was going ‘swinging the baths’, whatever the fuck that means. From looking at the corresponding picture, it seems that ‘swinging the baths’ involves recreating ‘The Ascent of Man’ in a frightfully multi-coloured way. Apparently black is the least evolved colour, or so said my disgustingly racist little brain. But, hey, never mind that: softball! Fucking softball! Awesome! Em… is that softball? Really? Maybe it’s not. Maybe it’s a Frenchman defending the Arc de Triomphe against a blue-haired caveman on a very sunny day using only a giant spoon… which DID happen on one of our family holidays… Anyway, through analysing my pictures it‘s clear that watching Jaws 2 caused rigor mortis, and watching Doctor Who caused me to transform into a wooden chair, and then sit my chairy ass upon an even less realistic chair.

 

Illustrated diary entries from my Primary 2 school jotters.

 

Young Jamie: Portrait of a Serial Douchebag (Part 5)

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That big tick after the word ‘pitchure’ makes it clear that I was being taught English by an incompetent who was as much a stranger to spelling as I was. Or maybe she was some sort of hippy who didn’t agree with knocking my incipient confidence by doing things like POINTING OUT WHEN I’D MADE A MISTAKE WHICH IS PRETTY MUCH A TEACHER’S RAISON D‘ETRE! ‘Aw, look, he spelled the word cat using a ‘w’ and the number 9, but I’m not going to be the one to make those blue eyes cry. 10 out of 10, my little genius.’ And what was going on in the pitchure itself? Clearly we’ve got a scale problem; either that or the kid with blue eyebrows for arms is a giant. And what kind of teacher forces the boys to wear Indain (sic) hats at a Christmas party? A fucking Red Indian Christmas party? SERIOUSLY? ‘OK, kids, let’s pass the parcel around the circle. But be careful. That parcel’s tainted with white man’s smallpox. Now, let’s scalp little Timmy.’ So what kind of hats will the girls be wearing? Well, just look at the pitchure, my young self implores you. Isn’t it obvious?? Em… no. Not really, young Jamie. French baguette and weird blue smudge hats? As worn by fucking Big Chief Blue Subway?

That big tick after the word ‘pitchure’ makes it clear that I was being taught English by an incompetent who was as much a stranger to spelling as I was. Or maybe she was some sort of hippy who didn’t agree with knocking my incipient confidence by doing things like POINTING OUT WHEN I’D MADE A MISTAKE WHICH IS PRETTY MUCH A TEACHER’S RAISON D‘ETRE! ‘Aw, look, he spelled the word cat using a ‘w’ and the number 9, but I’m not going to be the one to make those blue eyes cry. 10 out of 10, my little genius.’ And what was going on in the pitchure itself? Clearly we’ve got a scale problem; either that or the kid with blue eyebrows for arms is a giant. And what kind of teacher forces the boys to wear Indain (sic) hats at a Christmas party? A fucking Red Indian Christmas party? SERIOUSLY? ‘OK, kids, let’s pass the parcel around the circle. But be careful. That parcel’s tainted with white man’s smallpox. Now, let’s scalp little Timmy.’ So what kind of hats will the girls be wearing? Well, just look at the pitchure, my young self implores you. Isn’t it obvious?? Em… no. Not really, young Jamie. French baguette and weird blue smudge hats? As worn by fucking Big Chief Blue Subway?

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.

The Best Shittest Films: Santa Claus Conquers the Martians (1964)

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s1The movie opens with a chorus of children singing the song-cum-mantra ‘Hooray for Santy Claus’, which is catchy in the same way that a song played over and over into a terrorist’s ear in Guantanamo Bay is catchy. Look out for the lyrics: ‘You spell it S-A-N-T-A C-L-A-U-S / Hooray for Santy Claus!’ which contain a glaringly insulting error. These happy kids are made to look like spelling-spastics by the song’s rampant disregard for its own rules. Look out for my new song, ‘You spell it J-A-M-I-E A-N-D-R-E-W / Hooray for Jamue Androw!’ A minor quibble, perhaps, but in the end it’s the little things that’ll have you prising out your eyes with a rusty tea-spoon.

So what’s the plot of Santa Claus Conquers the Martians?

'I'll fucking conquer them alright!'

‘I’ll fucking conquer them alright!’

The movie’s title makes it all sound rather kick-ass, doesn’t it? Perhaps you’re already wondering how he conquers them. Does he get his hands on an assault rifle and rip into the alien scumbags John McClane-style? Does he bash those green bastards to death with a concrete candy cane? No, not really. In fact there’s no conquering at all. Not even a wee bit of subduing. The film should really be called: ‘Santa Claus is Really Nice to the Martians, Even Though They Kidnap Him, and He Ultimately Leaves Mars On Good Terms With Its People Despite the Behaviour of a Tiny Minority of Baddy Martians Who Want to Kill Him.’ Not as catchy, but definitely more accurate.

The story begins on Earth. A news reporter is at Santa’s North Pole Workshop conducting a live interview with the bearded chuckler himself, a role actor John Call brings to life by channelling both the lion from The Wizard of Oz, and a paedophile.

VERY Bad Santa.

VERY Bad Santa.

As we meet him, Santa is overseeing the global production of all toys. Quite a feat, considering his work shop is about the size of a small potting shed and his workforce consists of two dwarves. Two dwarves. That’s it. If magic isn‘t involved then Santa’s a more cruel and brutal slave-driver than all of the pharaohs put together, plus Hitler. The dwarves really should form a union.

'Whachoo talkin' about, Space-Willis?'

‘Whachoo talkin’ about, Space-Willis?’

One of the toys on the production line is a doll of a Martian, a wee piece of foreshadowing for our impending trip to Mars. Now, I don’t know if it was the poor lighting, the screen resolution on my laptop, or my own latent racism, but that Martian doll looked less like a Martian than he did… well… black. The toy was essentially a sci-fi gollywog. The news reporter picked up the doll and said, with some measure of fear and disgust: ’I wouldn’t like to meet him on a dark night.’ Of course you wouldn’t, you big Nazi.

So, Anyway, the Martians…

I'd be sad, too, if my Dad dressed me up like a total helmet.

I’d be sad, too, if my Dad dressed me up like a total helmet.

Meanwhile, across the solar system, the live broadcast of this interview is being watched by a duo of dead-eyed Martian kids, who thanks to their nasty TV addiction look like the offspring of a serial killer and Al Jolson. Their dad, Kimar, whose day-job is Martian supreme commander, is worried shitless about them. If he’d been an American dad he would have known what to do: dope the cunts up with beef burgers and Ritalin. Being Martian and ignorant of Earth ways he has to plump for a more locally-based two-prong solution.

Step one: put them to bed and knock them out with a sleep ray, without warning or consent. Nice work, Dad of the Year. Final step: get a crowd of mates together and go out into the rocky wilderness to consult a creepy 800-year-old man. We’d all do the same, and you know it. This old man, of course, needs to be summoned. ‘Dave? Hey, Dave? DAVE, YOU THERE, MATE?!’ No, that would be too easy. In any case the 800-year-old guy is called Chochum. Not Dave. Apparently Dave isn’t a very common Martian name. We’re all learning something today.

Chochum. A magical space mystic on Mars. That makes sense.

Chochum. A magical space mystic on Mars. That makes sense.

So, Kimar and a bunch of Martian elders band together and chant ‘Chochum’ into the unforgiving darkness, until the old fucker appears in a puff of smoke, complete with Gandalf-beard, standard-issue-old-mystic-guy staff and pish-scented wisdom. Chochum delivers his lines like a man receiving a sloppy blow-job as he fends off a stroke, which is pretty fucking funny.

What does Chochum suggest as a way of releasing the children from their torpor? Kidnap Santa Claus, of course. It’s so logical and sensible it’s a wonder they didn’t think of it themselves. So off they fly in their little spaceship, the operation of which is no more complicated than pressing buttons on a child’s fake calculator. The ship itself is a curious piece of inter-stellar engineering, looking for all the world like a burning condom whooshing through space.

The Search for Santa

s7The Martians reach Earth and begin their search for Santa – using a high-powered telescope, rather than any namby-pamby futuristic technology. To their horror they realise that there are thousands upon thousands of Santas in New York alone. With no way of determining which is the genuine article they do what any military group placed in a similar situation would do: they kidnap some kids. Bloody Martians. Always with the kidnapping! The kids tell the Martians where Santa Claus lives, and they all zoom off to the North Pole to get him.

The two kids, Billy and Betty, are incredibly annoying, and very shit at acting. It’s as if immediately prior to each take the director said to them: ‘The last one was good kids, but this time… NO EMOTION. Brilliant. And remember to deliver your lines in the style of a short-sighted, brain-damaged man struggling to read an autocue.’

Unfortunately, the kids learn not only that the Martians intend to whisk Santa across the solar system against his will, but also that they – being witnesses to the crime – must come, too, never to return to Earth. In fact, as if things couldn’t possibly be any worse, there’s an evil baddy Martian onboard who wants them all dead. His name’s Stevie. Yeah, alright, alright, I’m fucking with you. He’s called Voldar. Fortunately, there’s also a kind-hearted Martian simpleton onboard called Dropo, who succeeds in keeping the kids alive through a winning display of consistently retarded buffoonery.

About as scary as a tub of margarine.

About as scary as a tub of margarine.

The action at the North Pole is… shit. Adjectives fail me. It’s shit. The kids escape the ship and run off to warn Santa of his impending kidnap. In the process they get chased by the most unconvincing polar bear in existence. I know the director couldn’t unleash a real polar bear on the kids – some piffling Health and Safety law about not feeding children to large ursine predators, no doubt – but as far as guys-wearing-shit-animal-costumes go, Barney the Dinosaur is more authentically terrifying than this sorry excuse for a polar bear. Anyway, having escaped one near-death experience the kids then fall into the clutches of Voldar’s killer robot, who looks like the robot from Lost in Space if he was built by a class of special needs kids using cereal boxes, and the bin from Oor Wullie.

About as scary as... a second tub of margarine. And also made from tubs of margarine.

About as scary as… a second tub of margarine. And also made from tubs of margarine.

Don’t worry, though. Before the robot can crush the kids’ heads to dust like a couple of loaves of twelve-week-old bread, Kimar shows up to cool things down. The robot is then sent to retrieve Santa Claus, but is defeated when Santa Claus mistakes it for a giant toy, which inexplicably causes it to BECOME a toy, thereby rendering it harmless. Whoever programmed that robot shouldn‘t have been let loose on a hoover, much less a sophisticated cybernetic life-form.

‘Right, brilliant, my robot can kill a man with its bare hands, withstand gun, rocket and laser fire, smash its way through titanium and destroy whole cities with its nuclearised death beam. Pretty much its only weakness is being treated like a toy by an old man. But how likely’s that, right? I’ll leave that in the programming for some reason. What do you want me to build next? A robot dog that explodes whenever somebody makes it think about Sesame Street? I’m on a fucking roll here.’

The End…

'Ho ho ho! No need for mental health professionals, I'll cure your schizophrenia through laughter!'

‘Ho ho ho! No need for mental health professionals, I’ll cure your schizophrenia through laughter!’

Because I’m quickly losing the will to live I’ll speed up this review. Onboard the USS Flaming Spunk Sac, Voldar tries to kill Santa Claus and the kids by trapping them in the airlock and ejecting them out into the cold, remorseless void of space (lovely to see the threat of choking, exploding children in a kids’ film); unfortunately for Voldar (and all of us) they manage to escape through… well, magic. Yep. Santa Claus defies physics, and when quizzed on the specifics of his escape simply tells a few shit jokes, throws back his head and laughs.

Santa Claus then arrives on Mars and cures the Martian kids by… hmmm mmm, you’ve guessed it: telling a few shit jokes, throwing back his head and laughing. Kimar still slings him in jail, though, because he needs Santa to set up a toy workshop for the Martian kids, which he’ll work in until the day he dies. Ho ho ho!

Kimar (right) with his nemesis, Voldar, who looks like an evil Daley Thompson.

Kimar (right) with his nemesis, Voldar, who looks like an evil Daley Thompson.

Meanwhile, Voldar isn’t happy that everyone he twice tried to kill is still alive, and so forms an evil clique with a handful of the most stupid people on Mars. Why do baddies in kids’ films team up with complete idiots like this? They end up spending their valuable plotting-and-killing-time tip-toeing around like Panto villains, shooshing their bungling henchman as they do things like constantly trip over stuff and accidentally detonate bombs, always scratching their heads and saying, ’Uh, um, gee, sorreeee bosssss.’ Don’t hire them then, you fucking arsehole! There’s no equal opportunities directive dictating the make-up of your kid-murdering co-op. Employ real, ruthless killers and criminals; not the guys who turn up to the interview drooling with their jackets on back-to-front. Christ, your heinous plans deserve to get foiled.

This time, though, instead of murdering Santa and the kids, Voldar plans to discredit Santa by screwing around with his toy factory, causing it to spit out weird toy hybrids, like tennis racquets with doll bodies instead of handles. The plan doesn’t work; principally because it’s a shit plan. If he wanted to discredit Santa he really should have gone down the paedophile route. Cast-iron. Anyway, Voldar thinks, in defiance of all available historical facts: ‘Fuck it. I’ll just try to kill them all again.’

s12That plan doesn’t work either; because clearly one man with a death ray is no match for a bunch of kids with paper aeroplanes, water, bubbles and foam.

Santa, Billy and Betty then get to go home, but it’s OK, because Santa leaves the operation of the workshop in the hands of the mentally-deranged Martian, Dropo and a squad of under-age children. Congratulations! You’ve given the people of Mars the Christmas gift of an exploitative sweat shop. Now back to Earth with you, you fat cunt.

SPOILER ALERT: it turns out that Santa was dead all along and the children were the only ones who could see him. Oh, and he was Kaiser Szose.

The Legacy

Santa Claus Conquers the Martians was a great stepping stone for the careers of its principal actors: a stepping stone into oblivion. After his role as Santa, John Call didn’t act for another seven years, appeared in one more movie, and then died. Still, we’ll always look back fondly at the iconic roles he played throughout his career, like Man With Bushy Hair and Ticket Taker.

Head Martian Kimar was Leonard Hicks’ only film role. He never even went on to work as a movie extra. He just must have thought to himself: ’Fuck movies.’

The two child actors, Victor Stiles and Donna Conforti, went on a drug-fuelled sex-killing rampage in the 70s, torturing their mostly elderly victims whilst dressed as polar bears. Either that or they never acted again.

Uncle Wally/Dropo

Uncle Wally/Dropo

The only ’star’ to achieve any modicum of success was actor Bill McCutcheon, who played Martian mongo Dropo. Bill went on to have a distinguished career portraying many more on-screen mongos, and ended his days working on Sesame Street, alongside other respected luminaries of kids’ TV such as Chris Langham.

Young Jamie: Portrait of a Serial Douchebag (Part 3) The Robot

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Another sneaky peak at my school days, from the pages of my Primary 2 diary jotter. Today: behold, the robot!

Ok, let’s just get this out of the way, yeah? There’s an elephant in this room. A giant, cock-shaped one. So let’s grab it with both hands: my ‘robot’ has a helmet for a head (complete with Japseye-slit); a shaft for a body; and both of these parts are resting atop a big set of squishy, flattened balls. All that’s missing is the fountain of jizz gushing whale-like from its head. There are some deviations from the classic form, of course: penises typically don’t have accordion-esque robot arms dangling from them, or have ‘VULGAR’ written across them. Jesus, what a name to pick. VULGAR. How Freudian. I might as well have called it DIRTY BAD NAUGHTY PLACE. I wonder why the teacher corrected all of the spelling mistakes, but never bothered to write: ‘Jamie, you’ve clearly drawn me a big cock, you wee pervert.’ She graded it G for good, and then awarded me a star. Maybe, in those pre-internet-porn times, the old spinster was just glad to be seeing a cock, however robotic its manifestation. ('Jamie - I want this robot in me. Mrs Snowdon) This whole diary entry raises many questions: Where did I make him put up his hand? And in what way did I make him ‘stick’? And, most pertinently of all, why was I writing about having a maths and sex orgy with a robot when I have never, ever owned a robot, toy or otherwise? And the teacher simply accepted my claim!? I said my family owned a super-intelligent sex-robot, and she just shrugged and gave me a tick? Sick-ass bitch.

Ok, let’s just get this out of the way, yeah? There’s an elephant in this room. A giant, cock-shaped one. So let’s grab it with both hands: my ‘robot’ has a helmet for a head (complete with Japseye-slit); a shaft for a body; and both of these parts are resting atop a big set of squishy, flattened balls. All that’s missing is the fountain of jizz gushing whale-like from its head. There are some deviations from the classic form, of course: penises typically don’t have accordion-esque robot arms dangling from them, or have ‘VULGAR’ written across them. Jesus, what a name to pick. VULGAR. How Freudian. I might as well have called it DIRTY BAD NAUGHTY PLACE. I wonder why the teacher corrected all of the spelling mistakes, but never bothered to write: ‘Jamie, you’ve clearly drawn me a big cock, you wee pervert.’ She graded it G for good, and then awarded me a star. Maybe, in those pre-internet-porn times, the old spinster was just glad to be seeing a cock, however robotic its manifestation. (‘Jamie – I want this robot in me. Love, Mrs Snowdon’) This whole diary entry raises many questions: Where did I make him ‘put up his hand’? And in what way did I make him ‘stick’? And here’s the biggest problem. I claimed to have a robot. I was lying. Not only did I claim to have a robot, but I claimed to have a super-intelligent cock-shaped sex robot. Again, I was lying. Furthermore, they don’t exist. Why was I not challenged on this? My teacher was either a) a lazy, stupid, cock-daft deviant, or b) a big fan of Rocky 4.

 

Young Jamie: Portrait of a Serial Douchebag (part 2)

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Here’s another diary entry from my Primary 2 jotter.

OK, first thing's first, the 12th of November is not near Christmas. You'll have to forgive my poor sense of time perspective. I hadn't started masturbating yet, and so had nothing to fill the void between special occasions. I probably thought December the 26th was pretty near Christmas. Anyway, I seemed to be really looking forward to getting this gorilla suit, ostensibly so I could swap it for a Santa suit.

OK, first thing’s first, the 12th of November isn’t near Christmas. Please forgive my poor sense of time perspective. I hadn’t started masturbating yet, and so there was nothing to fill the void between special occasions. I probably thought December the 30th was near Christmas. What a little toy whore. Anyway, what’s the whole suit swap thing all about? Why did I believe that I could only hope to possess a Santa suit if I first donned a gorilla suit? Maybe gorilla is a soft gateway suit that leads you on to harder and harder suits, until eventually you’re way past Santa and standing infront of the Children’s Panel in a blue tutu and a diver’s helmet. In any case, a gorilla suit is WAY better than a Santa suit. What the fuck was I thinking? You can scare an old lady unconscious when you’re in a gorilla suit. In a Santa suit? Not so much. Unless it’s April and you’re carrying a knife. Speaking of Christmas-related violence, I can’t help but feel that the picture I’ve drawn isn’t that festive. It’s ostensibly a warm, happy picture of a family crowded around a fireplace on Christmas Day; but, if you look closely, I’m throwing my hands in the air and screaming in horror. And no wonder! At the left-hand side of the fireplace there’s a tubby, middle-aged guy showing off a whopping blue boner, and at the right-hand side of the fireplace there’s another guy with an even BIGGER blue boner – it’s longer than his legs, for fuck sake! And look again: the fireplace isn’t a fireplace at all, but a giant box with three massive locks on its lid that those rapey bastards are going to shut me in once they’re done perpetrating sex crimes on my young, black ass. Wait a minute… am I wearing a cat suit? That’s it, I’m phoning Esther Rantzen.

Young Jamie: Portrait of a Serial Douchebag (Part 1)

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I found a holdall in my mum’s attic that’s full of old jotters from primary school. Over the next few weeks I’m going to share a few choice entries from primaries 2 – 5.

Today’s sample comes from my Primary 2 News jotter, in which I expertly summarised my actions, thoughts and deeds from the weekend.

Ah, yes. I might've been greedy (seventeen colouring books? How very middle-class of me) and shit at writing, but at least I had counting nailed. There are indeed seventeen splodges of colour in the beautifully rendered picture above the diary entry. I was deadly at counting, and this skill has paid dividends in the adult world. I'm awesome at counting up how much money I don't have. Sorry for saying there were seventeen splodges of colour. There are clearly 'seventeene.' It wasn't a spelling mistake, as my teacher knew fine well. Clearly I was so advanced I'd decided to slip in a wee bit of Shakespeare.

Ah, yes. I might’ve been greedy (seventeen colouring books? How very middle-class of me) and shit at writing, but at least I had counting nailed. There are indeed seventeen splodges of colour in the beautifully rendered picture above the diary entry. I was excellent at counting, and this is a skill that has proven indispensable in the adult world. Now I can itemise all of my bitter regrets, and count up all of the money I don’t have. Sorry for saying there were seventeen splodges of colour. There are clearly ‘seventeene.’ It wasn’t a spelling mistake, as my teacher knew fine well. Clearly I was so advanced I decided to slip in a wee bit of Shakespeare. I was always doing that at school. Even when I needed a piss I’d put my hand up and say, ‘O but that thou wouldst graciously grant me leave from this place so that I may take a wee-wee, perchance a jobby, fair maiden.’ Either that or I’d just blow my face purple and shite in my Ghostbusters’ Y-fronts right there at my desk. Also note how I clarified my intended use of the colouring book to avoid confusion: ‘to colour in.’ Why am I not Prime Minister by now?