In the late 80s I used to do standup at a Soho membership referred to as Raging Bull, run by the younger Eddie Izzard. At half-time we shared our dressing room with male strippers from The Paul Raymond Carnival of Erotica. They’d sit bare of their chairs, casually chatting and masturbating, however not for pleasure, merely to maintain their members on the most tumescence for public show, the authorized definition of an erection being 45 levels.
I for one really feel this definition is just too exacting, and hope that one of many advantages of leaving the European Union will likely be a leisure within the erection guidelines. The truth is, I ponder if, secretly, it’s a need to set our personal requirements on what stage of tumescence constitutes an erection that has made Mark Francois, for instance, such a zealous Brexiteer.
It’s laborious to imagine my unintended encounter with the sharp finish of the intercourse enterprise ever occurred now. I used to be 20, and I used to be sitting in a room in Soho watching bare males masturbating. It was all the pieces my anxious gran had warned me showbiz could be.
The Mull of Kintyre famously juts out from mainland Scotland at precisely the identical angle as that of the authorized penis definition, and it’s stated that for a few years the British Board of Movie Censors used a picture of the peninsula to evaluate the legality of an onscreen erection, the outcrop first employed to analyse intercourse scenes in Tinto Brass’s 1979 epic, Caligula.
I’ve a confession. The opening of this column is reduce and pasted from notes in direction of my new standup present, Snowflake/Twister, which previews at London’s Leicester Sq. theatre from the 24th. On Tuesday morning I travelled to the lighthouse on the bell finish of the Mull, the closest mainland level to the Northern Irish coast, to shoot some footage for a multimedia climax to the piece, primarily based round my youthful reminiscences of the Soho dressing room incident.
Within the daybreak mist of the Mull, I regarded throughout the ocean in direction of Northern Eire, and seen, on the seaside, an odd combination of surveyors in high-vis jackets, and druidic figures in darkish robes, waving sextants and staffs respectively. Cloaked males have been chanting, “We construct a bridge, a bridge of lies.” Again then, I had no concept what they meant.
Later that day, on my Campbeltown resort tv, I noticed Boris Piccaninny Watermelon Letterbox Cake Bumboys Vampires Haircut Wall-Spaffer Spunk-Burster Fuck-Enterprise Fuck-the-Households Get-Off-My-Fucking-Laptop computer Girly-Swot Huge-Lady’s-Shirt Hen-frit Turds Johnson declare his intention to construct a bridge between Scotland and Northern Eire, one thing, he shortly identified “that Jeremy Corbyn could be too chicken-frit to do!”
Turds has kind right here. In my newly revealed research of Brexit, March of the Lemmings, I element Turds’ earlier declaration of bridge-building intent. On 18 January 2018, because the EU’s transition deal stance hardened, and a discredited Turds doubled down on his disputed £350m NHS dividend lie, the then international secretary promised a 22-mile motorway crossing from England to France, an apparent lifeless cat distraction from the gathering Brexit storm.
Nobody appears to recollect this now, however Turds’ wall-spaffed envelope-back spunk-burst of an concept was swiftly dismissed by the UK Chamber of Transport with an understated rebuttal: “Constructing an enormous concrete construction in the course of the world’s busiest delivery lane would possibly include some challenges.” Turds’ London Backyard Bridge undertaking had already led to ignominy.
It’s as if Turds has an odd bridge-based Tourette syndrome. Each time he finds himself below strain, Turds’ default setting appears to be to announce, in a mad panic, that he’ll construct some form of bridge. And by the point of his Tuesday bridge announcement, Turds has been sorely burdened.
On Monday morning Turds was simply bested in his beloved classical allusion stakes by Eire’s Leo Varadkar, whom Turds presumably considers a bumboy. And within the night Turds noticed parliament dissolve in a haze of rousing oppositional people singing and chants of “disgrace on you”, which was not good optics.
Usually reserved procedure-nerds lay themselves throughout the retiring Speaker like Spearmint Rhino lapdancers. Mark Francois, who appeared to have taken ketamine, stood as much as ramble prophetically a few bell tolling, and whom it was tolling for, a Peter Glaze Cassandra within the Crackerjack Trojan Struggle. However once I have a look at Mark Francois I do know the Bell Finish tolls for him.
By Tuesday afternoon, questions of funding, development materials power, and the issue of unexploded Second World battle munitions within the straits between Scotland and Northern Eire had already thrown Turds’ newest bridge boast into doubt. I went right down to the seaside once more, assuming the figures there had some connection to the undertaking.
A bearded wizard determine chanted into the waves, “Come, oh lies! Take bodily kind! Bend to the desire of Boris!” I caught the attention of a bewildered engineer, hard-hatted head bent into the wind. “I do know, I do know,” he stated, “we’re right here on the orders of Dominic Cumming. We’re to construct Boris’s Irish bridge from the strongest, most indestructible materials out there.” I requested what that materials was. “Mr Cumming’s and Mr Johnson’s lies, apparently,” stated the engineer, nonplussed. “They imagine they’ll stand up to something.”
On Wednesday I watched the resort tv whereas I waited for the movie crew. Immediately, it appeared that Turds’ proroguing had been declared unlawful. Parliament would possibly reconvene.
There gave the impression to be some consternation down on the seaside too. Staffs have been snapped in two. Surveying tools was hurled into the ocean. An engineer bellowed right into a cell phone. One of many druids sat down on a rock to roll a pacifying joint.
• Stewart Lee will likely be studying from his new e-book, March of the Lemmings, at Phrase on the Water in Granary Sq., close to King’s Cross, London at 2pm as we speak (free); his new standup present, Snowflake/Twister, is on the Leicester Sq. theatre, London, from 24 October, then touring from February 2020