Funny that. I didn’t realise I was a moose fucker until I came to Scotland, thank you. Anybody can fuck sheep. You want to fuck a moose, you better have a plan, yeah? Think in advance of what you’re doing back there. Get yourself an ice hockey stick so you can tickle his ear. Which, from that reaction, I can tell I didn’t have to act out for you. Doesn’t bother anyone that the moose in that story is a boy? No. I’m actually enjoying the shit out of my life in Scotland. There’s nowhere like Scotland, by the way. Knowing that there are Canadians, Americans, people all over the world that would be thrilled to be in an audience in front of Frankie Boyle on a fucking Saturday in Glasgow. You are a lucky, lucky audience. And all you have to do to enjoy tonight supremely… I think we’ve got our leaks in, the heads are nodding. Are we happy to be here? Are we in a good place? Great. Do we feel thrilled that we’re at a very unique event? This is one of your own. This man grew up in Glasgow. He’s known all over the world. He’s revered by other comedians. I’m honoured to be sharing a stage with him. I hope you’re honoured to be in a theatre watching his Netflix fucking show. Are we fucking excited about this? Yeah! Well, then, let’s make even more noise than that, and welcome out the one, the only, your own, Glasgow, Frankie Boyle!

Let’s hear it for Mr Craig Campbell, ladies and gentlemen. Oh, I’m 43 and I’ve got a body like a dropped lasagne. I’m 43 and I now ejaculate with all the force of Mary Berry’s icing piper. Women now look at my naked body in the same fearful way that pensioners look at snow. Let’s be honest, they’re both probably going to break your pelvis.

Enjoyed the mass trial of Britain’s celebrities like some paedophile Nuremberg. That was good. Stuart Hall got 15 months. The judge said they would have given him 15 years, but he was worried he’d ejaculate when he heard his sentence. I never get involved in celebrity paedophilia, myself. I used to just stand in a corner and watch. I’d simulate the feeling of paedophilia by getting Jeremy Beadle to wank me off with his tiny hand.

Savile, man, he had his own TV show. The other paedos must have been raging. “I’ve got a TV show that makes children’s dreams come true. “What have you got?” “A transit van and a big bag of Revels. “Fuck off.” Made Children in Need a bit awkward now, hasn’t it? I have a theory that Savile fucked Pudsey’s eye out of its socket.

It’s the marathons that get me. There’s only fucking two marathons a week. What’s that about? Imagine a wee boy, you’ve escaped from one of these places where you’ve been pumped. A children’s home or whatever. And you run all night long. You run as far as your little legs will carry you, and as dawn breaks you hide in a ditch, you sleep in a ditch. Night falls again, you run again. You run to the limit of your young endurance, you’ve run 22, 23 miles. You think, “That’s it. I’m safe.” No, you’re not. Jimmy Savile had the paedophilic range of 26 miles.

Obviously they taught people in paedophilia for millennia with the Catholic church. That’s why those little cherub angels had to evolve wings. To try and fly up and away from the priests. That’s why bishops had those big curly sticks, to try and get them back down.

The politicians involved in paedophile scandals… Of course politicians are fucking kids. They kill kids. They kill kids with their decisions every fucking week. Having a go at them for fucking kids is like criticising Peter Sutcliffe when he’s parallel parking. I honestly believe there are children alive today underneath the floorboards, and in the walls of the Houses of Parliament. That’s why they all make those mad kind of animal braying noises. “Help! Help, we’re trapped…” “Hear, hear. Hear, hear.” “Help, he’s going to fu…” “Hear, hear, hear.”

That kind of joke is exactly the reason that the chances of me getting my own TV show are about the same as the chances of someone commissioning a Pakistani version of Don’t Tell the Bride.

So, it looks like we have a Prime Minister who fucks dead pigs’ faces. They’ll have to throw in an “allegedly” there for the edit. Allegedly he mounts the faces of dead pigs. That has to be an upper-class thing, doesn’t it? I don’t think any working-class person has fantasised about putting a cock in a dead pig’s head since Raoul Moat died. Those revelations came in a book called Call Me Dave, which is ironic, ’cause that is the last thing that anybody will be calling him for quite some time.

What else has been happening? Everyone went nuts about that lion that got killed. I’m not saying it’s not sad that a lion got killed. It is. I hate it when you see these photos of big, fat American tourists when they’ve shot a giraffe. They’re always wearing camouflage, like giraffes fucking shoot back. All I’m saying is, we’ve seen exactly the same photos of Americans with dead Iraqis. The only difference is we know the lion’s fucking name. I honestly think if I was an Afghan civilian at the minute, I would get dressed up as a leopard, and hope I got saved by Ricky Gervais.

Got the refugee crisis in Calais… Those people are frightened as well. Can you imagine how frightened you have to be before the back of a British truck looks like a safe place? They’re fighting to get into trucks that drugged teenagers are fighting to get out of. I’m totally pro-immigration. At the same time, I’d like to see a world where an African farmer can live and farm in Africa, and doesn’t have to try and cross the Mediterranean on a fucking punctured lilo, then dangle under a lorry for four days so that he can get a job handing out lollipops in a nightclub toilet. Also, I’ve never finished a piss and thought, “I could really go for a lollipop.” I’m in my 40s, I dribble. What I want in a nightclub toilet is someone who’ll shake my cock out like a wet umbrella.

UKIP have jumped on the bandwagon about all that stuff, eh? Nigel Farage, who to me always looks like a frog trying to escape from a scrotum. He sort of looks, Farage, like that guy down the pub that people buy drinks just to see what he’ll say. “Give him a couple of whiskies and tell him to phone a Chinese. “Watch this.” He came up to Scotland and got chased by an angry mob and hid in a pub. Hid from Scottish people… In a pub. It’s like hiding from a tiger by dressing up as a fucking antelope. That was in Edinburgh, as well. That’s the genteel part of Scotland. Edinburgh and Glasgow are very different cities. For example, if you see a guy in Edinburgh walking down the street carrying a golf club, he’s often going to play a game of golf.

Farage dodged the question of whether he thought Idris Elba should be the next James Bond. And I think Idris Elba would be a great James Bond, ’cause I want to see a Bond movie where the pre-credit sequence is just a black guy trying to drive an Aston Martin through central London. “Someone seems to be shooting at us, Bond.” “I think it’s the Met.”

UKIP want an Australian-style point system. Australia is the most racist place on Earth. Ayers Rock is just a load of dead Aborigines with a tarpaulin pulled over it. Was that too much for some of you? This might be quite a long hour. This is a gentle tickling, kind of foreplay, what we’re involved in here. “Tickling foreplay” sounded sinister, didn’t it? You never hear quite how racist UKIP supporters are, cause they always do those vox pops for the news in the high street. They need to start doing those down the pub. “Well, guv’nor, if you’d caught me at 3:00 on Bromley High Street, “I’d have told you that my main area of concern was Europe. “But seeing as we’re in Weatherspoons, I’ll cheerfully admit that it’s the Jews.” It’s, sort of, the good-ol’- days party, UKIP, isn’t it?

Do you remember the good ol’ days? You could get fish n’ chips and polio in the good ol’ days. You could leave your front door open, ’cause you had fuck-all worth nicking. And no one had the strength to open the door, ’cause they all had fucking polio. And you could go out for a walk on a bank holiday Monday down the pier, and your little brother would go missing, never to be seen again. In the fucking good ol’ days. You could have a right old knees-up in the good ol’ days, if you didn’t have fucking polio. And you had variety shows on the TV, not like your alternative comedy, no. Everyone on that variety show, they could dance, they could sing, they could tell a story. And each and every one of them was a convicted child molester. And you thought you vaguely recognised one of them from the day that your little brother went missing. But you couldn’t be sure, ’cause you’d been drunk, even though you’re only four-years-old. ‘Cause it was the fucking good ol’ days. You were drunk from the alcohol content of the mouthwash that Jimmy Savile used to dip his cock in between victims. ‘Cause it was the fucking good ol’ days. The fucking good ol’ days, when you could “ooh” a bad joke about Ayers Rock, not knowing that two jokes down the line, Jimmy Savile was dipping his fucking cock in mouthwash. Fuck it, that bit’s going in.

Do you know the main place for refugees from Iraq getting re-homed in Britain is Glasgow? Sighthill. Yeah, I didn’t ask for exactly where. I was… I wasn’t just going to fucking fuck off this stage in the middle of this recording to go and find a fucking Iraqi refugee, eh? “Did you… Did you go to the show?” “It was a bit weird, actually. He did about 10 minutes, “and then he fucked off to Sighthill. “Two hours later, he came back with a guy called Ahmed. “Wished us all a fucking good night.” Some of these sentences I say will just be the set-ups to jokes, pal. Okay? How are you doing anyway, buddy? Thanks for trying to help me out. You look like… You look like at some point in life, you’ve had to pull a dangerous dog off your mum. So that you could have a go at fucking her yourself. Do you know the main place they send Iraqi refugees… Fucking hell… So, boys. You’re fleeing sectarian hatred and violence?

I love the Old Firm, man. Two sets of fat people singing about famine. You’ll never replace the hatred without Rangers, will you? You’ll never get back to the same level of hatred without Rangers, even if you had a Muslim Partick Thistle. The Catholics and the Muslims would just bond over their mutual hatred of orange outfits. We’re, six points behind, boys, but we’ll claw it back over Ramadan.

I fucking love the Orange Walk, actually. I love it, man. There aren’t a lot of things left in life that make me feel handsome. I totally mean this in a good way, right. I’m not saying the Orange Walk is gay. All I’m saying is, if I was trying to prove that I wasn’t gay, that’s not how I, personally, would go about it. “Who are you calling gay? Fetch me my majorettes stick and my pink ribbon. “I’m about to perform a wee routine that will leave you looking rather foolish.”

An English guy asked me the other week what’s the difference between a Scottish Catholic and a Scottish Protestant. Which is quite a difficult question. ‘Cause there isn’t one, really. And the best I could come up with was this. A Scottish Protestant only thinks about his relatives who’ve passed away at good points in his life. “I wish my dad was still alive to see me graduate. “I wish my uncle Tommy was still here to see me get this job.” Whereas a Scottish Catholic only thinks about his dead relatives when he’s doing something guilty, or shameful. “I’m sorry, Granny.” I’m fucking sorry! I’m sorry about that joke, Granny. And my entire career, to date.

You were fucking blowing your nose really loudly during that joke, did you know? You wanted a wee bit of attention? You’re like someone tried to set an episode of The Undateables in the werewolf community. Hey, man, what are you? A straight guy that likes the gay look, a gay guy that likes the straight look, like myself? You look like you’ve collected more rings than Sonic the fucking Hedgehog. When you finally suck a cock, all it’s going to taste of is relief.

I haven’t really done gigs in Scotland since the referendum, so all I know is that 55% of you are probably cunts. To be honest, that was always the average with my crowds, anyway, so… It was old people that swung the referendum, wasn’t it? Do you know what it reminded me of? It reminded me of when you used to see an old Scottish couple in a quiz show. And you get behind them, you go, “Come on, be brilliant.” ‘Cause they were Scottish and they’re always daft as fuck. “Question number one. “Do you think that you can sell oil for money?” “Do you think we could, Alec? “Do you think we can sell the oil for money? “Do you think someone would pay us money? Money for the oil? “We don’t think so, no.” You fucking stupid old bastards.

Then we’ve got austerity. It’s pretty bad as well. Things are so bad in Glasgow that mothers have started dressing their children up as referees in the hope that people throw coins at them in the street. And everybody’s looking for somebody to blame. Is it immigrants? Is it people on benefits? It was the fucking banks! They showed you them doing it! On the fucking news! Am I the only person that remembers that? Have I gone fucking crazy? Do you know what it reminds me of? It reminds me of watching Columbo at my Granny’s when I was wee. Columbo, they’d show you the murder in the pre-credit sequence. It wasn’t a whodunnit, it was about Columbo proving that the guy did it. And then halfway through, my Granny would always go, “I think it was her.” No, Granny, it was fucking him! They showed you him doing it with a fucking paperweight. It’s exactly the same thing with austerity. “I think it was those Polish cunts in the corner.” It was the fucking banks! The fucking banks! And the political class project onto you. “They’re all stealing, they’re all scrounging, they’re fiddling.” ‘Cause they fucking steal from you. They fucking fiddle from you. Your idea of decadence is probably bath bombs or something, right? Do you know what psychological projection is? So, like white Americans have a stereotype of black people as being criminals. And you think, “No! You stole them. “You stole them from Africa.” We need to think more about the psychology of politicians. Vladimir Putin is probably a homophobe, because he’s had to go through life with the name of a gay porn star.

Conservatives are down on families that haven’t worked for three generations, ’cause they know if they make it to five generations, they qualify as aristocracy. Cameron. Cameron did that very clever thing in the election, actually. He insisted on having the TV debate with seven leaders, ’cause he feels more powerful in a room with seven people, as he knows that, statistically, one of them will have been raped by a Conservative MP. Watch Cameron in Parliament, and this is true. Never uses the word “children”. Always goes “young people”, “problems for young people”, ’cause he knows if he says the word “children”, his whole back bench will come on his neck.

I thought it was very sad to read about the death of Robin Williams last year. I can’t be the only person… You enjoyed the death of Robin Williams? He’s just, like, “Well, actually, I did. “I enjoyed his early work, but, to be honest, Patch Adams… “Quite amused me that the guy who did Patch Adams actually committed suicide. There was a certain amount of irony involved in that. And you’d be churlish to deny it, frankly.” I read about the death of Robin Williams and I thought, “Why can’t James Corden get depressed?” I did that in London, a guy got really fucking angry. He went, “My wife is depressed!” Turns out, the correct response to that heckle is not, “No fucking wonder.” He said… This is all true. “The irony is depression’s a very serious illness.” I said, “You don’t seem to understand what irony means. “The irony here is that you’re making me feel depressed.” And he walked out. And as he walked out he turned round and went, “Suicide can never be funny!” I said, “Well, kill yourself and see if I laugh.”

Why is it always comedy that brings out the worst in everybody? People don’t go along to Hamlet and shout, “My husband feels melancholy!” It’s not always a happy talent, being reflexively horrible to people, but it’s the one I’ve got.

I was in London a few months back, and a wee guy came up to me with a clipboard and he went, “For just £20 a month, you can become a friend of St Paul’s Cathedral.” I went, “How much to fuck it, then?”

That was actually the day of the Charlie Hebdo massacre. I was on the train down to London, and there’s guy sat across from me with his laptop, reading about the massacre as it happens. And he went into a long, I think, racist rant about how Christians never get involved in terrorism. And he was from fucking Belfast! I thought it was good David Cameron went over to show his solidarity with Charlie Hebdo. He couldn’t feel less solidarity with what they stood for, could he? He should have shown genuine solidarity by telling a really offensive joke at the memorial. Just throwing the wreath to one side and going, “I’d just like to say that I like my women like I like my whisky. “Twelve-years-old and in a barrel.” “I’m joking, of course. 18 and full of coke.”

People always lie at memorials. “My thoughts are with the family.” Your thoughts are never in one place. Be honest about it. “My thoughts are with the family. “And also wondering if I can fit a folded-up flip-flop into my mouth.”

There is a place for offensive comedy. Comedy’s just a thing we came up with. ‘Cause most of the time, we’re all thinking the same little tramlines, and comedy’s just a licence we gave to some people to say, “Go and see what’s over there,” and offensive comedy’s just a wee bit further over there. We don’t go over there to horrify you, you know that. Just go over there ’cause we think it may be a really funny. Or interesting. Could be important.

I’ll give you an example. Look at something we’d all feel the same about. Something we all think is a good thing. Like cancer research. Someone would come up to you and go, “I’m running a marathon. My friend died from cancer. It’s what he’d have wanted.” “You sure? I think he’d rather be alive.” Don’t actually say that to him.

All right, let’s actually go further out. Let’s pick something we couldn’t possibly disagree on. What about that wee guy that raised all the money for cancer research? He had cancer himself, raised millions of pounds, so we all think the same, we all think that’s heroic. Let’s try to look at it another way. Cancer research gets done on animals. That wee guy was the fucking rabbit Hitler. We’ve been doing cancer research for decades, we’ve spent hundreds of millions of pounds, maybe we should stop. Maybe we should stop and use the money to build a giant waterslide park for people with cancer. A giant waterslide park the size of a fucking city, and you only get in if you’ve got cancer. And on diagnosis day the doctor will say, “Well, I’ve got good news and bad news. “The good news is you’ve no idea how fast you go down a flume with no hair.”

‘Cause charity can be patronising, can’t it? Give a man a fish, and he’ll eat for a day. Give him a fishing rod, and he can feed himself. Alternatively, don’t poison the fishing waters, abduct his great-grandparents into slavery, then turn up 400 years later in your fucking gap year talking a lot of shite about fish.

Charity ignores cultural difference, doesn’t it? “Oh, these people have to walk an hour every day just to find water.” Maybe it’s cultural. Maybe some people walk an hour every day to find water. Glaswegians drive forty miles to get Krispy Kreme doughnuts.

Comic Relief, who banned me… Comic Relief banned me just for going on and saying, “I’m surprised to be here, “I thought the only way I’d get back on the BBC “would be if I started fucking kids.”

Comic Relief this year raised money for Malawi and Uganda, the colonial power in Malawi and Uganda was Britain, and Comic Relief is us saying, “Thanks for all the gold, boys! Thanks for all the diamonds! “We’ve had a whip-round and bought you a fishing rod.”

I hate these gap-year fucking grief tourists, as well. “Oh, we all worked so hard over there. “We all worked so hard in that village.” No, you didn’t. You spent half of every day working out how to hide your packed lunch. I actually hope those jihadi brides come back just so they can one-up everybody’s gap year stories at uni. “That’s nothing, Cynthia. I spent the last nine months eating hummus out of a skull.”

This next joke is my favourite joke that was cut out of Live at the Apollo. Terrible times in the Middle East, at the minute. Things are so bad in the Middle East, that porn stars have started referring to their pubic arrangement as a Gaza strip. An area that’s been so brutally pummelled that no child could ever hope to crawl out alive. I mean, I wish I lived in a moral world where that joke didn’t make sense, but I don’t, do I? We were told when Gaza got attacked that Hamas were using human shields, and they weren’t. Humans almost never get used as shields, ’cause humans make really bad shields. Human make such bad shields, that humans were forced to invent the shield. “Precision bombing,” those raids were called by the Israelis. It looked about as precise as a blowjob from a guy with a cleft palate. You’re enjoying it, mate? Are you enjoying it? You enjoying it, mate? Quiet, boy.

We’re underneath the House of Lords. Hear, hear. Hear, hear. I thought it was sad that Scotland didn’t get independence ’cause, you know, I lived in England for a few years, but I think I still pass the test of full Scottishness, in that, I can hear a cricket score and have absolutely no idea who won. And we’re a… We’re a unique people, aren’t we? The only country in the world where people give travel reviews entirely in alcohol prices. “How was Prague?” “How was it? £1.30 for a litre of vodka. “And 40p a pint.” “Are there nice museums?” “Quite possibly, yes.”

I think, whatever happens next, it’s important that we do something that the English aren’t expecting. Something to put England on the back foot. And the last thing that they’re expecting is for us to form an Islamic Caliphate. IS. Independent Scotland. Okay, we might have to learn how to treat women slightly better, but we can change. IS just went for independence. They weren’t debating currency union. “What will we use for currency?” “Journalists.” “Good idea.”

We have become more Anglicised as a country. People say things like, “jog on” now. Anyone who says “jog on” can fuck off. We don’t need English stuff. We’ve got our own stuff. They’ve got Glastonbury, we’ve got T in the Park, where people get Glastonburied all the time. We could have had a Scottish homecoming after independence. Think about that. Standing at the border with bunting, welcoming back the Scottish diaspora. Half a dozen championship footballers, 40,000 tramps, Lulu and Bible John. A couple of years down the line, we’d have had some kind of socialist government, as well. You’re never going to elect a Scottish Nazi party, are you? Think how difficult it’d be to gas people who smoke 120 fags a day. ScotRail would never get us to the fucking camps on time. I quite liked… Do you remember that… Everyone’s starving to death somewhere outside Lindsey. The Scottish Holocaust.

Do you remember the idea, do you remember the idea that after the general election, the SNP would have the balance of power, so any time anybody wanted to do anything or pass a law, they’d have to have an argument with a Scottish person? “Ooh, you’re very good at this arguing business.” “I’m not part of the negotiating team. “I’m just here to take your drinks order.” “Oh! Could I have a cup of tea?” “No!”

So, we didn’t get an independent country, we got a fucking Scottish Doctor Who, that was about it. Doctor Who. Doctor Who, of course, is the archetypal Scottish character. An old man, armed with a screwdriver, dragging young women into a phone box. “I’m taking you back to the 1970s.”

It’s a negative place, Scotland. Negative. If Kanye had been born in Glasgow, he’d be called No You Cannae.

People moan like fuck in the winter, as well, don’t they? The main theme of winter moaning is, “Why isn’t transport running normally through three feet of fucking snow?” “Why isn’t this plane moving through the snow?” What you really want is for the pilot to come over the intercom and go, “Well, I’ve been told that it’s not safe to take off, “but I thought, fuck it, let’s give it a go.” I don’t fly, myself, but I assume everybody now searches the pilot’s voice on the intercom, looking for a hint of depression. “We went through a little bit of turbulence there. “In my marriage.” That pilot had just been told he had a baby on the way. So in many ways, he did the right thing. Hats off to the cunt. I don’t really think that. I don’t think that. I do, I’ve got kids, myself. And I think he was right to fuck his plane right into a ski resort. I don’t think that. Who would think that? But I do think it was funny. I do think it was funny that at some point his girlfriend must have hung up and gone, “I think he took that quite well.”

See, that’s just why I need to stop doing comedy. You can’t even tell jokes about things that you don’t think any more. If I did a tour, the first question in the first interview would be, “So, what about all the people that are offended by your jokes? “Have you taken that into consideration?” When Ben and Jerry launch new ice cream, they don’t say to them, “So, what about all the people that don’t like ice cream? “What about the people who consider it to be a bit cold? “This has peanuts in it. Some people are allergic to peanuts.” Put the fucking spoon down, you cunt! Don’t…

Don’t ever argue with a joke. It’s like telling a clown that his car isn’t gonna pass its MOT. I can’t write jokes for the average person. The average person is fucking Chinese. Also, have a bit of trust. I’m a professional comedian, right? There’s a point to the jokes. I’ve not stopped the bus I’ve been driving to jump out and try and tell you a fucking joke. Have a bit of trust. Do you know what it feels like when someone gets offended? It feels like I’m a gynaecologist and someone’s screaming that I’ve touched her vagina.

I’m not saying that at some point I won’t have touched on lazy stereotypes. I’m sure I’ve done jokes about Welsh people being sheep shaggers or something. Remember that stereotype? Welsh people shag sheep. Before that guy from the Lostprophets came along. “Don’t worry, everybody. They won’t be calling us sheep-shaggers much longer. “I’m going to clear this misconception up.” Also, don’t come up to me and tell me your jokes, okay? Do you think people went up to Harry Houdini and went, “Got your nose, Mr Houdini! “Oh, where did it go?” Fuck off!

I hate consumerism, Miley Cyrus and Justin Bieber. She looks masculine. Have you noticed that she looks masculine and he looks feminine? She looks like quite a… Quite a doable rent boy. No offence, mate. Bieber sort of looks like grown-up Madeleine McCann cross-dressing for anonymity. Why? She’s still alive in that joke! That’s a joke filled with hope!

I like these wee consumer sugar festivals we have.

Mother’s Day. Sorry for ruining your vagina, Mom, there’s a box of Milk Tray.

Valentine’s, celebrating the four-letter word that keeps us all together. Fear. I’m joking, of course. AIDS.

If you feel offended by anything in this show tonight, feel free to tweet your outrage on a mobile phone made by a 10-year-old in China. ‘Cause that’s what Santa Claus does the other 364 days a year. He flies around the world, apologising to all the children that actually have to make the presents. “Sorry about that, Wa Ling Ho. “So, tea break’s over. Back to work, son.”

People say that Steve Jobs died too soon. But I think it was a fitting metaphor for his company’s attitude to battery life. I honestly hope that they buried him in a coffin with a great big fucking crack on the lid. Do you know what Apple have got me doing with their battery life? They’ve got me scouring restaurants and cafes looking for an electricity point like a rapist with a three-pin penis.

Twitter‘s good, though, isn’t it? Before Twitter came along, if I wanted a stranger to call me a cunt, I had to go out for a walk. An old woman tweeted me… This is true, all right? An old woman tweeted me and went, “I hope your dog dies, cunt.” It was 1:00 in the morning and I was still up, so I went, “I hope your cunt dies, dog.” ‘Cause anyone can troll on Twitter, can’t they? I admire the people that do it on Facebook, where everyone can see that you’ve got two ugly kids and a shit kitchen.

I like those wee biogs people have on social media, where they put the most banal, depressing summation of their life. “Tea drinker.” I like to drink cups of tea. That’s me in a nutshell, that is. “Foodie.” I eat food. I want a burst of honesty in one of those boxes. “I was brought up in an atmosphere of such violence “that I could never truly love anyone.” “The only person that loved me I rejected, and during my ensuing mental breakdown, I got a nutcase pregnant.” “I also drink tea.”

People get really offended by jokes on social media, eh? Even if it’s just a wee light-hearted joke about Michael Schumacher going into coma or something. I gradually worked out people are offended because they don’t understand the jokes. I grew up thinking that turning something into a joke was a way of explaining it to people. And as I’ve got older, I’ve realised, turning something into a joke is actually a way of codifying information so that only a few people understand it. Don’t know if you remember, but when Michael Schumacher went into a coma, I got a bit of grief for tweeting, “The only hope is that overnight “Michael Schumacher’s brain will be repaired by elves.” It was actually a very light-hearted Elves and the Shoemaker.

They’re talking about reducing speed limits near schools, and I think that’s a fantastic idea. ‘Cause the only people who drive at the correct speed near schools are paedophiles. And that’s only because they’re doing it one-handed.

I’ve got kids myself. People say that having kids brings a lot of joy into your life. And it’s true. Without my kids, I wouldn’t have been out every night, met my girlfriend and divorced their mum.

People say it’s better that when you’re telling your kids off, try and stay positive. Don’t brow beat them. I think that’s a great piece of advice. But sometimes I’m standing there thinking, “I don’t see anything positive about this. “You have shat on my rug. “And I’m struggling to find an upside.” My son’s still quite wee, so it’s difficult to punish him. What I do is I tuck his bedclothes in really, really tight and hope he has a nightmare where he’s trapped in a giant’s pocket. If that doesn’t work, I’m gonna cut the breaks in his Heelys.

My kids for Father’s Day got me that thing, mint tea tree shower gel. No one had warned me about that! I thought that my arsehole was gonna burst into song.

There are experiences that you only get as a dad. If you’re not a dad, you’ll never be caught having a wank by a Furby.

My kids are both at a great age, actually. They’re both at an age where they think that anyone that shouts at me in the street must be some kind of fan. “Look, it’s another fan!” “So it is. Quick, into the taxi. “Into the taxi before the fan catches up with us!” It’s a Welsh guy who’s in the Orange Walk. What are the fucking chances of that?

People say that Londoners are unfriendly, but Jihadi John has really raised the fucking bar, hasn’t he? Do you know what I love about Jihadi John? I love the fact that he dresses up as a ninja to try and look scarier. It’s not gonna get a lot scarier, mate. Maybe if he wore a mankini. It would, sort of, be more sinister, ’cause it would have the air of a stag night that’d gone tits up.

I think, couldn’t we understand each other more? Couldn’t we try and love each other a bit more? How long have you known what a Muslim is? For me, that’s about 20 years. If somebody had told me 20 years ago that they’d been promised 72 virgins, I’d have assumed that they’d got a presenting job at the BBC. A joke which was cut out on the BBC.

I honestly blame American foreign policy for a lot of that stuff. American foreign policy is horrendous ’cause not only will America come to your country and kill all your people, but what’s worse, I think, is that they’ll come back 20 years later and make a movie about how killing your people made their soldiers feel sad. Americans making a movie about what Vietnam did to their soldiers is like a serial killer telling you what stopping suddenly for hitchhikers did to his clutch. I honestly wouldn’t be surprised to learn that 100 years ago, America gave the rest of the world a safe word and we’ve just forgotten what it is. Or maybe we’re pronouncing it wrong. Aluminium. I thought it was aluminium.

America have a mercenary army now. Do you know about this? After the Vietnam War, you couldn’t conscript people any more, they all went mental. So you had to move to a mercenary model, and Britain did the same. That’s why you don’t get war poets any more. Imagine what a war poet’d be like now. “There was a young boy who failed school, Acted a bit of a fool. “Went out to Iraq, Smoked a whole lot of crack “And his legs ended up in Kabul.” I’m not generalising there and saying that soldiers are all stupid, by the way. I don’t think that, I don’t generalise. Hitler was a vegetarian. I’m not gonna generalise and say that all Nazis are cunts.

It’s a strange society, Britain, isn’t it? You can have sex at 16, you have to be 18 to watch porn, you can join the army at 16, you have to be 18 to buy Call Of Duty. You can register to vote at 16, but you have to be 18 before politicians stop finding you attractive.

And I decided to ask myself, “How did they create the British Elites?” Now, I have to warn you, this routine goes to a really grim and depressing place. I’ll try and do something afterwards that’s jolly and happy. I’m lying, but I’m trying to give you hope. How did they create the British Elites? Boris Johnson, a great big fucking bouncy castle with Alzheimer’s. A great big pissed-up dandelion. How did they make him? Well, they did the same thing the Spartans did. They take you away from your family, age seven or eight, they put you in a single-sex environment, then they do what any mind-control operation does, they bore you with Latin and cricket and double Latin and then very suddenly, sodomy. Boris Johnson evolved that fringe as a kind of makeshift cum shield. I don’t think that, literally, about Boris Johnson, right. I’m being metaphorical. But I do think, the English public school system creates the worst people in the world. Our elites are the only people in the world that feel jealous of orphans. That’s why they always fuck kids from children’s homes, ’cause they feel jealous of orphans. And even as they’re fucking them, they say, “At least, your parents died. “Mine just wanted to go skiing more.” It’s not over yet, either. Then I thought, maybe it’s worse than that. Maybe they deliberately cut social spending and attack groups like social workers, so that there are always plenty of orphans for them to fuck! Maybe the British Elites aren’t just greedy and venal, maybe they’re the hands and eyes and teeth of a giant paedophilic monster. And the only time that monster feels any joy in life is when it’s fucking children so young that the only way they can think to defend themselves from rape is to shout “Expelliarmus”. See, we’ve ended up in a wee Harry Potter joke in the end.

If you didn’t like that bit, I think Michael McIntyre‘s in town next month. I watched Michael McIntyre the other night. He does a bit about, you know, those beach umbrellas with the heavy base? He goes, “Oh, how heavy are those?” and he, he mimes out trying to move it over to his sun bed. And I’m watching it, thinking, “You don’t move the fucking umbrella.” That’s why it’s so heavy. You move the bed under the umbrella. And his fans are pissing themselves, and I’m just sitting there, thinking, “What else don’t they know?”

How are you doing, buddy? You tried to fucking break out there, mate. It didn’t work, you cunt! There’s security at the door and you’re fucking trapped in here! And if there’s a fire, I’m gonna sit on your fucking chest, you cunt. For getting up at quite a tricky piece of material and pawing at the door like a fucking Yorkshire terrier. You fucking, despicable cunt. Okay, okay, you’ve made an effort, with your dress and hair, but it’s like putting 26-inch rims on a fucking wheelie bin. You have no soul! I honestly hope that you get cancer quite deep up your arse. I hope it gets cured. Try radiotherapy or whatever. And then a few years later, a guy in a ski mask pulls you into an alley and rapes you. And as the rapist comments on how tight your asshole is, you suddenly realise that the cancer has come back. You missed the routine about the English public school system.

The Scottish comprehensive system does quite a bit of damage as well, to be honest. It’s metaphorical, that routine, but there’s a grain of truth in it. ‘Cause the public school system encourages sociopathic traits. This is a government that was sending disabled people letters, telling them that they were fit for work when they were fucking dead. “We think you’d make a brilliant draught excluder. “You have a brilliant future ahead of you as a speed bump.” This is a prime minister that went to Sri Lanka and told them off for human rights abuses they committed with weapons we sold them. Like Ronald McDonald calling you a fat bastard.

We need to engage more with politics, man. Most Scottish people think that NATO is just a nickname you give to a guy who lost their foot to diabetes. What the fuck is going on with this caveman? I think everyone else that plays the Citizen’s gets the people that fucking usually come to the theatre and I just empty the high flats. I honestly wouldn’t have it any other way.

I love playing at Gorbals. It’s great to see women who’ve gone in a fucking sunbed place and asked for the shade “oompa-loompa”. I honestly wouldn’t be surprised if John Wayne stepped in and shot you dead with a fucking rifle.

Okay. I’ll try and do something a wee bit more cheerful. If your fucking back teeth are floating, there’s about 10, 15 minutes left. 10 minutes probably. I’ll go quicker just for you, you cunt. Okay, I’ll try to do something a bit more cheerful.

Uh… Watched a documentary on stroke survivors the other night. A bit one-sided.

Did you see that woman that died after drinking 10 litres of Coke a day? She ate a packet of Mentos and they found her head three miles away.

Piers Morgan says that women send him knickers through the post. Presumably with the message, “From one cunt to another.” That’s a kind of sexist thing, isn’t it?

How ugly men can be and still get on television. Alan Sugar looks like he’s been cleaned out of someone’s bellybutton. He looks like Mother Teresa’s knee.

Jeremy Clarkson went a bit like that towards the end, didn’t he? A bit, kind of, origami elephant vagina. Imagine punching your producer when Richard Hammond is in the fucking building. Okay, jokes, jokes.

Do you reckon… Do you reckon if you got fingered by someone that knows sign language it’s like having a puppet theatre in your vagina?

“You can run, but you can’t hide,” is a funny thing to say to children with asthma. Oh, that’s too much? Asthma’s a red line? There was a wee guy with a cleft palate being fucked under the House of Lords 40 minutes ago. Asthma’s too much. Sorry, son, I didn’t realise you had asthma. I thought you were into it.

I think we live in a rape culture, we live in a porn culture. Did you see that thing you get on porn search engines that says, “Make this your home page.” Who does that? Who wakes up in the morning, is confronted with footage of a 48-year-old woman being fisted and thinks, “I’m home”? Humans are the only animals that watch porn. Unless you include my cat. And I think it’s quite a sad thing, really, porn, ’cause it denies the reality of sex. Think of all the stuff that’s in sex that isn’t in porn. Like the fact that men get depressed after they cum, almost as they cum. A wee joke from God, that. That never made its way into the letters page of Fiesta, did it? “So I was taking her from behind, “and I flipped her over and as I came on her face, “I suddenly realised that other people are essentially unknowable.”

And I think it’s led to a lack of empathy from men about what sex is like for women. I often think it must be more intimate to let someone inside your body. I feel awkward just letting the gasman into the hallway.

I’m completely behind feminism, by the way. It gets bandwagon-jumped a bit. You know, Louise Mensch or someone, “Oh, I’m a feminist.” You’re fucking anti-choice. If you don’t even think women should control their own body, you’re on the list of great feminists in between Ted Bundy and King Henry the fucking Eighth.

So, I’m gonna tell you about this wee incident I had when I wanted do a routine about rape culture. But before I tell you about it, I’m not saying here, “Don’t think about the language around rape.” Do think about it, it’s important. Rapists get called predators, I think they probably like that. You’re not a predator, mate. You’re a fucking scavenger. The majestic lion of the Serengeti doesn’t have to drug the watering hole and pretend to be a fucking minicab driver. And also, I’m trapped in the sexist system, too. I’m part of it, right? ‘Cause I grew up in it for fucking 40 years. I’m trapped, too. I can watch Emma Watson give a speech to the UN and think that’s brilliant, and that’s empowering, but I have to have a wank afterwards. ‘Cause I’m trapped, too.

I wanted to do a routine, right, on Live at the Apollo about rape culture. And they’re really good people and they said, “We love the routine. “You just can’t say the word rape on the BBC at that time of night.” And I think surely, as human beings, we should be able to decode the ideology behind the word. I can train a dog to get annoyed at a word. Rover, Jehovah’s Witnesses. This is before we get to the fact that different words mean different things to different people. You say Snapchat, I say speedwank.

Then there’s a thing called phenomenology. Phenomenology means the joke can’t take place in my mouth. If you think about it, it has to take place in your head, doesn’t it? This is why it’s often better in your head, ’cause you add stuff to it. This happened to me recently on Byers Road. An old guy asked me to help him cross the road. He went, “Help me cross the road, son. “I’ve got aids in both ears.” Phenomenology works for everything. We’ve all got our own versions of stories. For me, the Pinocchio story is actually about Geppetto being a paedophile. He lives on his own in the forest, then, suddenly, a wee boy lives with him. And he says to his mates, “Don’t listen to him. “Tells lies. “That’s varnish on his face.” I also think that Peter Pan and the Lost Boys are the souls of abortions. Explains Captain Hook. Then there was a story that I couldn’t work out for ages. Cinderella. Quite a strange story. ‘Cause you think the climax of the story is gonna be at the ball. She meets a handsome prince, they fall in love and that’s it. Happily ever after. Instead, Cinderella runs away. I always thought, “Why does Cinderella run away?” And then I worked it out. Cinderella has a dick. Cinderella is a beautiful transsexual woman. That’s why the ugly sisters get her to do all the heavy work. She was born as a guy, but she’s a beautiful transsexual woman. She panics and thinks the handsome prince won’t be into this. But the beauty of this story is, the handsome prince knows and he loves her anyway. That’s why he gets the glass slipper and he says, “Whoever fits this slipper, I will marry.” And he knows that he’ll find Cinderella, because it’s a fucking massive slipper. I did that in Edinburgh, a guy right at the back clear as a bell went, “Cinderella runs away because her horse and carriage “is about to turn into a pumpkin and mouse.” And I said, “Yes, but that is a metaphor for the cock and balls.” And I had the clearest moment of wondering what the fuck I’m doing with my life as I said that.

Life’s sort of all gravy to me. ‘Cause I was an alcoholic for a bit and I thought I’d be dead in my mid-twenties. So it’s all been pretty good. The very last night I got drunk, I was in San Francisco. It’s about 3:00 in the morning. This is, like, 16 years ago. I’m trying to get back into my hotel room, but I’ve lost the key. So I decided I’d try to jimmy the hotel door open with a credit card. ‘Cause there’s a certain level of drunkenness where you think, “Hey, I might be a spy.” So I was doing that for what might have been hours, when a guy walked out of the next bedroom and it was a cop! It was an American-uniformed cop. And he looked right at me and he went, “You are lucky that I’m a stripper.” And I don’t know why I said this, but I went, “Good. ‘Cause I fucking hate cops.” And that is how I found out that he was not a stripper. He was a cop with a sense of humour. And, as it later turned out, quite a temper as well. But the way he showed me how badly I’d fucked up was just brilliant. He grabbed his trousers in both hands and went like this… The trousers went nowhere. I don’t know if you’ve ever watched a big man hoping that his trousers come off. But that will sober you up. I didn’t tell that story for years either, ’cause I was ashamed. People would say to me, “How was San Francisco, Frankie?” And I’d go, “£3.40 a pint.”

I think that we get controlled by language. I think that’s partly how we’re controlled by propaganda. We take language too literally. You know, we mistake the menu for the meal. Anytime you’re tempted to take language literally, have a think about how much good parenting goes on in Motherwell.

They change the meaning of words on us to control us.

Do you remember at school the word “daydreaming”? Daydreaming was a rebrand of the word “thinking”. Don’t daydream, don’t think.

Then they came up with “stress”. Stress was a rebrand of the word “unhappiness”. ‘Cause unhappiness, you’d have something to do about it. Stress, you just put up with. You don’t meet someone at a barbecue, “How are you doing, John?” “Oh, well, uh, quite busy at work, so I’m quite unhappy “and getting busier towards Christmas. I’ll be even more unhappy then. “She’s got a little baby on the way, so it’s all unhappy as fuck, “if I’m being honest.”

Then they came up with post-traumatic stress disorder. Post-traumatic stress disorder is a phrase they came up with to describe the disconnect in a soldier’s mind when he goes from a combat situation back to having heterosexual sex. Imagine it. You’re out in Afghanistan, you’re being fucked every night by a guy built like a werewolf. You’re in one of the most beautiful places on Earth, the stars are shining in the sky, the sand is burning your knees, you’re telling yourself, “It’s not gay if I don’t push back.” And the intensity of your love-making, it almost feels as if the dynamic power of his penis moving inside your body is what powers the light in the stars themselves. You’ve got to leave that behind and go back to your semi-detached house and finger your wife on a DFS sofa during the ad breaks in The X Factor.

There’s almost no hope in my work. And it’s partly because I feel that hope is overrated. I think we are the descendants of people who are very wary and very cautious about stuff. “Is that a leopard over there? Maybe that’s a leopard.” There’s almost no evolutionary advantage to going, “Maybe it’s not a leopard. “Let’s all just really hope that it isn’t, eh?” Those people were eaten by leopards. I’m not saying don’t have hope. If you have a dream, if you have an ambition, please, go for it, because I love to watch cunts like you struggle. But I feel a bit bad sometimes, ’cause I grew up watching Bill Hicks. He was my favourite comedian. He’s probably the reason I’m in it. He’s still probably my favourite comedian. He had so much hope that even when he was dying, in his last show, he does a big routine about, “Don’t worry, life is all just a ride. “Just try and enjoy it. It’s all just a ride.” But also, I think, maybe it’s all just a ride if you’re one of the people that’s allowed on the ride. If you’re one of the people that’s rich enough or white enough to be allowed on the ride. What if you’re one of the people that has to build and maintain the ride? If I had to build and maintain the ride, I would stretch piano wire across the bottom of the rollercoaster so that everybody finished the ride with a photograph of themselves with two thumbs up and no fucking head.

It’s been a pleasure talking to you. Take care of yourselves, you’re the best.