Did you hear the one about Jordan’s disabled son? Unlikely, since you probably don’t watch Tramadol Nights (Channel 4), nor read the Mirror (‘Katie Price furious after Frankie Boyle joke about her disabled son’), nor the Guardian (‘Frankie Boyle’s Katie Price joke sparks Ofcom investigation’).
Don’t worry, I’m not going to repeat it here. What kind of sicko do you think I am: Rod Liddle? It’s an issue, nonetheless, on which my sympathies are more torn than common decency tells me they ought to be. Sure, it’s absolutely disgraceful that a nasty Scottish comedian should make light of the suffering of an eight-year-old boy with septo-optic dysplasia and autism. On the other hand, any joke that provokes the collective handwringing of the entire libtard media, the world’s dullest celebrity (Price), the world’s most stupid celebrity (her ex Peter Andre), Amanda Holden, Mencap and Ofcom must, almost by definition, be one we should cherish and Re-Tweet as often as we possibly can.
And what on earth were these people expecting of Frankie Boyle anyway? It’s not as though he’s the new Ronnie Corbett, tickling us gently with his relaxed armchair monologues. Frankie Boyle uses comedy like a broken bottle in a rough pub. He’s genuinely scary and hard and unpredictable. That’s why people go to see shows and even to sit in the front row and be hideously abused by him. They want to see just how low Boyle is prepared to go. And the answer, hence his career, is lower than anyone else.
An expert on violence once told me that similar rules apply in street fighting and gangland warfare. It’s not how good you are at martial arts that counts, or even how big you are. The one who wins is the one who turns more brutal, more quickly than the opposition. It’s the theme of the Bob Hoskins classic The Long Good Friday. It’s the theme of real-life gangs in cities around the world: whichever has the heaviest- duty weaponry and most merciless footsoldiers is the one that gets to control the trade.
Not, you understand, that I’m brandishing Boyle as a small-willied man does his Ferrari or his pit bull. Though I admire his fearlessness — such as the way the week after the Jordan furore, he moved on to telling jokes about cancer victims — I don’t find him nearly as funny as I do, say, Harry Enfield and Paul Whitehouse, or Armstrong and Miller, or Mitchell and Webb. I never go, ‘Oh good. Mock the Week’s on!’ Still less do I have any urge to watch again his latest sick-fest Tramadol Nights.
(to read more, click here)
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