Kevin Bridges: The Story So Far… Live in Glasgow (2010) – Full Transcript

Full transcript of "Kevin Bridges: The Story So Far... Live From Glasgow." Filmed in May 2010 at Glasgows SECC Arena in front of a sold out crowd of 10,000 fans.

♪ I’m at the crossroads ♪
♪ Getting drowned in white lines ♪

♪ A bad moon is rising ♪
♪ But now I’m doing time ♪

♪ But I’ll just keep walking ♪
♪ And this devil I will find ♪

♪ Got no home to go to ♪
♪ I can’t sleep at night ♪

♪ Broken and falling ♪
♪ Falling, I’m broken ♪

♪ Got whisky on my mind ♪
♪ Got whisky on my mind ♪

♪ On my mind ♪

♪ Broken and falling ♪
♪ Broken and falling ♪

♪ I’m broken ♪

♪ Got whisky on my mind ♪
♪ Got whisky on my mind ♪

♪ On my mind ♪

♪ My train is calling ♪
♪ My train is calling ♪

♪ No woman I can find. ♪
♪ No woman I can find. ♪

Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Kevin Bridges.


Audience: Hello.

How are we today in Glasgow? Friday night, it’s fucking payday. Here we go.

It’s good to be here in the Scottish Exhibition and Conference Centre, here we are. The SECC, or as it’s known locally, “that fucking SECC”. “Three quid for a hotdog in that fucking SECC.” “See that queue at the bar in that fucking SECC.”

Over in these big venues, you know, when people come out and they see their mates, and they’re on the phone going, “Where are you?” “We’re in D, we’re in D. Where are you at?” “I’m in K.” “D, E, F, G, H, I, J… K.” “Stand up. What are you wearing?” “Er, yellow T-shirt.” “Oh, aye, I can see you. I can see you. Wanker! Wanker!”

It’s nice to be here. I’ve seen… I’ve seen Lady Gaga perform. Yeah, I’ve seen Lady Gaga in here. It’s easy… It’s easy to slag Lady Gaga, but the guy puts on a good show. I’ve seen him up here singing about his poker face. No, he’s a talented bloke, he is.

So, did you see the entrance, did you see the intro, Tony Soprano, eh? I don’t even drive, man. See how smooth that was? I don’t even drive. It’d kind of ruin Tony Soprano’s image if he’d just whipped out a provisional driving license. You believe this fuckin’ cocksucker? You believe this fucking guy?

So, it is good to be back. This is the last night of the tour. Good to be back in Glasgow. Good to come back in Glasgow because you can speak. You know, when you travel with a Scottish accent, it’s kind of hard. Nobody understands anything you’re saying, no. I’ve done a few TV shows. I’m a pretty fucking big deal, you know? I’m serious news. No, I’ve done a few TV shows. When you’ve got a Scottish accent on the telly, you need to try to enunciate and use proper English. But it’s hard to find the right balance, ’cause no matter how hard you try to enunciate and use proper English, there’s still somebody from Leamington Spa. “When we saw you on the television “I didn’t quite understand everything you were saying.” “I didn’t quite catch it. Some of it was a bit over my head. “Your accent is really quite strong. You’ve got a really thick Scotch accent. “Didn’t quite catch everything you said.” Whilst there’s somebody in Scotland saying, “We’ve seen you on the telly “talking like a fucking bender.” “Care to explain yourself?”

And when you travel down south and you tell people you’re from Glasgow, they get quite excited. They go, “Glasgow, yeah, it’s really quite rough, isn’t it? “Really violent, yeah.” You kind of get proud, and you go, “Oh, aye. Oh, aye.” “You know, a lot of tough guys.” “Oh, aye, a lot of tough men, yeah.” Then they visit the place and they’re a bit disappointed. We’re trying to get away from the stereotypes. We’ve got a new promotional tourist campaign called “Glasgow: Scotland With Style”. Anybody seen the posters? It’s one of these kind of homogenised posters of people, supposed to be the new face of Glasgow. People with names like Nathan. You know, every major city advertises the happy people like Nathan, and it’s this guy who’s in the poster, “Nathan, sales assistant”. “Proud Glaswegian.” I don’t think a sales assistant called Nathan is a fair representation of any major city. I think major cities should play up to those stereotypes on the billboards advertising your city, show them real people, like wee Mental Davey. Apprentice joiner. Father of six. Davey’s there in the billboard with the six kids all tucked into the one tracksuit. A Lacoste tracksuit – only the best for these kids, they’re all dressed up for their granny’s 30th. You’ve got six kids, you’ve got Keanu, you’ve got Sigourney… Destiny. That’s a new one, Destiny. Imagine naming your daughter after the nightclub she was conceived in. “This is Destiny, and this is my son, The Garage.”

That was a nice shock statistic about teenage pregnancy. Apparently one in three 15-year-olds in the UK admit to being sexually active. That was a shock tabloid headline. I don’t know where they get this kind of evidence, no. I don’t know who they ask to get these statistics. You know, if some youth worker approached you when you were 15 years old, in front of all your pals, and asked you if you were sexually active. You’d say, “Fucking right, mate.” “Who, Shagger?” Put me in for five, pal.

If you ever get any sex education at school… Remember, word would spread, when you were 15, if you went to the health centre they give you out condoms. That was good, you went to the health centre and got your condoms. None of us were well sexed, but you got the condoms. Fill them up with water. They’d become water balloons. Using a condom in a water fight, the thinking man’s water fight. But you’d always have one of your friends who would take it a bit too far and introduce a Durex Extra Safe. A Durex Extra Safe in a water fight, you’ll fucking put somebody in a coma. A Durex Ribbed Extra Safe! You’ll need facial reconstruction.

I’m getting to that age. I’m 23 years old. I’m 23. Not a lot of people believe that I’m 23. In the west of Scotland, this is what a young guy looks like in this day and age. I’m 23. I look like a darts prodigy, don’t I? Look at that. I’m 23, so I’m getting to that stage. Some of my friends, some of my cousins are having children. You’ll notice this: In a family gathering there’s a newborn baby getting passed around somebody’s living room like a joint. And everybody’s saying their piece. You know, some people who’ve just got this natural rapport when they speak to babies. They can just go, “Oh, look at you. Aw. Aw.” And the baby starts mumbling. “Are you telling me a wee story?” It’s getting closer and closer to me and I’m thinking, “Shit.” “I need to pretend that I give a fuck.” And it gets to me and I just kind of freeze. I’m going, “How are you doing, mate?” And the baby feels the tension, starts to cry. Everybody looks at me as if I’m in the wrong here. “Toughen up, you wee prick.”

Dogs, as well. I feel uneasy in the presence of dogs. Not “dogs” in the traditional sense. I mean “dugs”, right. You know, you got a difference. In Scotland they call a dog a dug. We take that “o” and make it “u”. A dog, a dug. It’s a slang term, but it’s also a social implication, in that you get “dogs” and you get “dugs”. D’you know what I mean by that? You get, “Oh, look at that wee dog”, “Watch that fuckin’ dug.” You know, one of them big council-house terriers with a name like Sasha. Somebody brings it on a bus and it jumps on top of you on the bus and you shite yourself. And the owner’s going, “Don’t worry, she’s only playing with you. “Don’t worry, she’s just a big softy.” And the dog’s going, “You know that’s a lie. “This isn’t over.”

I like animals. Just feel uneasy amongst dogs. I was watching a documentary about animal testing, about toiletries and cosmetic products that get tested on animals. And it was showing you these horror stories about animals that get badly burned and disfigured. It was pretty distressing shit, right. But I’m quite a positive guy. I’m watching this, thinking, “What about the happy stories about cosmetic tests? “What about the tests that were successful?” “What about the toiletries and beauty products that made it to the market?” I want to turn on the TV and see the two chimpanzees in a laboratory cage somewhere saying, “You’re smelling good, chico. ” “Is that Lynx Africa?” Bomp-chica-wha-wha!

I’m 23, still live at home. Don’t know if any of the young guys at the front, any of you still live at home?


Young guys at the front, a guy up in block D said yes. Twenty-three, you live at home, you don’t need to pay rent and stuff like that, but you pay mental rent, don’t you? I’ve always had a good relationship with my parents. Especially my dad. You know, when you’re seven, eight, nine years old, as a young guy, traditionally, your dad is your hero, isn’t he? Your role model. He knows everything. You want to follow in the guy’s footsteps. You want to emulate the guy. Then you get to about 12 years old, you realise your dad’s an arsehole. It’s a perfectly natural stage in adolescence, discovering that your dad’s a bit of a knob. It’s just what happens. Normally happens on Christmas Day. And involves building something. I’d be sitting there working patiently away, using the instruction manual. My dad would come in. See, my dad is of the old school where the use of an instruction manual is viewed as an admission of homosexuality. “That can get to fuck.” “Where’s the claw hammer?”

And once you’ve realised your dad’s an arsehole, you can kind of use it to your advantage. I realised my dad was an arsehole in 1998. Right. In 1998 you never had Sky Plus. Or Sky HD. It was just Sky. And you had, I’d say three options. You could get it via a satellite dish, via a cable, or you knew a guy that could get you a box. You know, one of them guys that can get you a hold of anything for 40 quid? He can get you a Nissan Micra, 40 quid. He can get you a set of golf clubs, 40 quid. An iPod nano, 40 quid. Fifty quid in cash, 40 quid. Everybody’s met a dodgy bastard, right? 40 quid. The satellite dish, that was like in a working-class option. Satellite dish. You want a satellite dish. You want your neighbours to know you’ve got Sky TV. If you’re paying £25 a month, you want your neighbours knowing that you’re better than them. Now, we had Sky through a satellite dish, 1998. You could be watching Sky TV… I don’t know if anybody remembers old-school Sky. You could be watching Sky TV in the living-room television, but you could also go upstairs to the bedroom TVs and watch Sky, but only what the person in the living room… only what they were watching. I don’t know the intrinsic technical explanation as to why that happened, but it just did.

Saturday nights, me and my dad watching Match of the Day. And it gets to the kind of shite games. And I say, “Right, I think I’m going to go to bed, Dad. “Good night.” And he continues the charade, and he says, “Oh, you’re going to bed, Son? Oh, that’s fine. Good night.” And as that mutual father-and-son, we both know what the plan is here. Casually exit the living room, nice and slow. Don’t even stop off in the kitchen for a look in the fridge. Eyes on the prize, right up the stairs. Bedroom TV switched on, go to channel number 6. That’s when you see what he’s watching, number 6. TVs are synchronised, but he’s in control. A few minutes go by and he’s still watching Match of the Day. I’m thinking, “That’s fine, he must be giving it a couple of minutes. “You don’t want to make it too obvious. “Nice and smooth. He’s done this before. Nice and smooth.” Another few minutes go by, I’m thinking, “Come on, stick to the plan, Andy. “You’re better than this, come on.” Looking at the bottom right of the TV, waiting for the numbers to get typed in. The numbers that could make or break the evening’s entertainment. Waiting for the numbers. “Go on, play your numbers, give me your numbers.” Nine. That’s good. That’s good. He’s played a nine. Could not have hoped for a better start than a nine. Zero-five, the 10-minute freeview. Jackpot! “You’re a dirty bastard, Dad, but I love you.”

Yeah, that was back in the day, back in the old days when the late-night TV was good. Remember Channel 5 would stick a porno on. You’d have programmes like Eurotrash on Channel 4. And that’s what kept young people off the streets. That should put an end to teenage antisocial behaviour… put soft-core porn back on terrestrial TV at the weekend. Thank you, sir. Remember you’d be there watching Channel 5, The Red Shoe Diaries, or Indecent Proposals, it gets to the good bit. You’re ripping the head off it, right? You get to the point of no return and they go to adverts. Quick, change that to Eurotrash. A midget poking a zebra’s arse with a shopping trolley. Oh, it’s by no means ideal, but it’s better than nothing.

Remember finding a porn mag in a hedge? That’s a dying game, innit? Finding a porno in a bush. Remember you’d be playing football, the ball’d get kicked in the bushes. Somebody would go in to retrieve the ball, they would come out with no ball. Proudly parading in a wank book. Match abandoned. Finding a porno in a hedge. It’s those kind of coming-of-age moments that shape you as a person. I don’t know if I can reminisce about much at 23 years old, but I like to reminisce about the ’90s, the good old days. Back when it was just a PlayStation 2 and stuff like that.

Remember your first taste of independence, when word had spread in your school that somebody’s mom and dad were going away for the weekend? And that the guy or the girl were having a party. They never knew they were having a party. Perhaps “having” is the wrong choice of word. They were “getting” a party. And I don’t mean the kind of high-school parties that you see in American movies. “Hey, hey, do you guys know Chad Hogan?” “Yeah, of course, man. Everybody knows Chad Hogan, man.” “Chad Hogan’s mom and dad are going away to Long Island for the weekend, man. “There’s a party at Chad Hogan’s mom and dad’s?” “Yeah.” “Whoo! Spring break! Yeah!” “Chad Hogan’s parties are awesome, man. Whoo!” Then it shows you Chad Hogan’s party. Chad Hogan’s booked a band for his living room. “Great party, Chad. Whoo! Yeah! “Let’s go get some dip and chip. Whoo!” Everybody’s nodding to the music with these plastic cups of beer. But nobody knows who brought them. They just go, “Whoo! Yeah! Whoo!”

That’s not the kind of parties we had. We never had that kind of parties. We never had spring break, we had the Easter holidays. When I was growing up, it was called “an empty”. An empty. It derives from, ‘We’ve got an empty house.” “We’ve got an empty.” The house is empty. It’s an empty. I mean, you never had, “Spring break!” or Chad Hogan or bands at an empty. An empty was a far more tense affair. Somebody’s furious cousin would disrupt the ambience by announcing that he’d popped his 12 cans. “Drank two, gave one away, “but there’s only seven left.” “Turn that down! We’ve got a can thief. Fucking turn that down!” Somebody else in the corner just trying on people’s jackets. “Think this one suits me?” Not even asking, “Does it fit me?” “Does it suit me?” I mean, the guy’s a petty criminal, you need to look your best, don’t you? The same guy that’s leaving the house at the end of the night holding a microwave. “I think you’ll find I brought this with me.” “And I do not care for the accusation. “I mean, why would I steal a microwave?” A 35-year-old guy that nobody knew in the corner. Smoking dope and blowing into your Labrador’s face. An intelligent dog as well, and it’s sitting there frazzled. An empty. Good times in an empty.

I seen a headline about a mental party. It was obviously a tragic event, but it was pretty funny. A headline that said, “Woman drugged, beaten, tied up, and left for dead “at neighbour’s party.” Surely that can no longer be referred to as a party. I have been in attendance at some pretty wild gaffs, but when a woman has been drugged, beaten, tied up… “I better get a taxi, huh?” That’s the cue to stop dishing out nibbles.

Well, a lot of violent crime – that’s been in the news quite a lot. A lot of violent crime, knife crime, gun crime, stuff. I don’t know what the solution is. There’s calls for the tougher sentences. I think we need more consistent sentences. For example, the crime attempted murder, that carries a six or seven-year jail sentence, whereas murder carries a life sentence. Now, why should that be different? You still tried it. Attempted. You tried to kill somebody. You weren’t very good at it. That was by no means your forte. And I don’t think you should get a lesser sentence. In my opinion, you should get double the sentence for making an arse of it.

And they get police officers to travel round schools to give talks to kids about knife crime. At the end of the talks, they give the kids a sticker that says “Dennis the Menace” or something. Something like, “Dennis the Menace says no to knives.” Now, I don’t mean to be cynical here, but if you wore a “Dennis the Menace says no to knives” sticker at school, there’s a good chance you’d get stabbed.

I think a start would be to close the shops that sell violent weapons. You know you get these sports shops that sell crossbows to alcoholics, you know these places? And sport shops that sell 3,000 baseball bats every year but have never sold a baseball. “They’re the Easterhouse Red Sox. They’ve not had a game in a while, but we’re still… “We’re still selling them equipment. “They must have a pretty hectic pre-season schedule booked.”

I was in one of these places, doing a bit of research, and the only security measure, if you wanted to buy something that could be construed as a violent weapon, is you need to fill in a form leaving your name and address so if anything happens, you can be easily traced for questioning. Now, that’s the theory. What self-respecting nutcase, buying a weapon with a view to committing a heinous felony, would leave their real name and address? I picture some police investigation team going through the book. They say, “Excuse me. Shop owner. “Says here you sold a samurai sword “to Bert and Ernie “from 24, Sesame Street.” And some new-guy cop, they’ve maybe sent him on a wild-goose chase somewhere, Sesame Street not showing up on the SatNav. Sliding down the window for directions, going, “Excuse me. Excuse me, mate. “Sorry. Excuse me, excuse me. Can you tell me… “how to get… “How to get to Sesame… That’s a fuckin’ wind-up, innit?”

I used to watch a programme called Get Your Own Back. Big show in the ’90s. I’ll explain the premise of the show to the more mature audience members. It was hosted by a guy called Dave Benson Phillips. Big Dave, as you can see, a fanny magnet, right? Dave Benson Phillips. In the show they’d get these kids on who wanted to get their own back on a family member who had done something to annoy them. And it was always like, you know, they’d tell the story about what their family member had done. Then they’d bring on the family member and everybody would boo. It was normally a guy, and they’d boo. They’d go “Boo!” “How could you do that? Boo!” Then they would gunge the guy. Cover him in gunge and go, “Boo! Serves you right.” “That’s what you get. Gunged. Boo!” And that was that. Revenge. Revenge had been hard. Revenge. It was always really, really shite stories. Like, “I’m here to get my own back on my daddy. “‘Cause we were in the car and he farted. “And it was absolutely disgusting. “And he wouldn’t put down the window.”

I used to watch this every day. Just one day somehow hoping for something a bit more hard-hitting. “I’m here to get my own back on my Uncle Ronnie “’cause he’s a paedo.” And everybody’s going, “Boo!” “Gunge that paedo.” “Gunge that beast.” When’s the last time you turned on the TV and seen a paedo-gunging?

Everybody had a dodgy uncle or a dodgy teacher. We’d a maths teacher, a bit dodgy, bit of a pervert maths teacher. You know, you’d forget your calculator, he’d make you do the class in your vest and pants.

Your favourite subject at school?


PE? Same here, man. I was always the fat guy that brought in a note. “Please excuse Kevin from volleyball. He’s fucked off to the chip van.” That’s what PE stood for, for me. “Please Excuse.”

My favourite subject was woodwork. And as we know… Woodwork. Everybody’s woodwork teacher was a functioning alcoholic. We’d a woodwork teacher. His name was Mr Brundle. So we’d come in in the mornings and we’d shout, “Let’s get ready to Brundle.” And everybody else in the class was ready to Brundle except this guy. He was fucked. His Brundleing days were over. He’d just be sitting at his desk, about 25 minutes into the woodwork class, just sitting there, just going… And he’d face the class and just say, “Right, kids, I’ve had a tough, tough weekend.” “I’ve had a tough time this weekend. “I was supposed to go to IKEA, “but I spent a week’s wages in Oddbins. “So one of yous wee pricks make me a spice rack.” When you were 12, that was a lot of stress.

Now, PE. We’re in the middle of an obesity epidemic. Do you know about PE? Not a lot of young people exercising. Do you exercise? – What’s your exercise of choice?

Football. Football.

Do you play for a team? Just five-a-side? Seven-a-side. Just the kind of guy, just go… I play five-a-sides. I’m the kind of guy, I just go for the shower. You know, they play five-a-side on Sunday, they just stay in goal for the whole game, then as soon as the game finishes, they start whipping people in the arse with a towel.

Now, we’re in the middle of an obesity epidemic. I don’t know if we’ve got any fat people in the room. Have we got any fat people in? I’m a little bit rotund myself. I don’t mean I’m fat. I give myself “chubby”. I’m not documentary fat. Never gonna turn on Channel 4 on a Tuesday night and see a guy like me, “Tonight, we meet the 14-stone man.” “That looks disgusting.” “Anybody watch that 14-stone man last night? Shocking. “Showed you this guy, he couldn’t even do 20 minutes on the treadmill. “It showed you the guy having his dinner. “He ate a gammon steak and oven chips, “and then he ate five Jaffa Cakes, and a Penguin.” “14 stone! “It’s on again next week. The guy’s shocking.”

People always get flawed perceptions of their size. And it works in a few different ways. I’ll use women as an example here. You know you get girls who are skinny, but they think they’re a bit chubby? Girls who are chubby think they’re fat, fat girls think they’re obese, and then obese girls think they’re supermodels. They’re the happy people. They’re the ones hanging out of limousines on a Friday night going… The driver’s going, “Can you lean in, please? You’re gonna fucking… That’s right.” They’re the first ones on the karaoke. They’re the happy people.

I tried exercising. I took up swimming. I tried to go swimming. I went to my local… Thank you. I went to my local pool. Don’t know if anybody here’s ever been to the local public pool. You don’t need to be a member in your local public pool. Anybody can go. And they mean that, they mean anybody can go. Anything. Anybody. Anything can go. Anybody can go. When I took up swimming, I tried to go to my local public pool. I work at night time, so I need to attend my local public pool daytime. Now, in a public swimming pool, on, for example, a Wednesday afternoon, it attracts a certain clientele. And I noticed this one day. I was in the public pool Wednesday afternoon, I had done my length. Then I stopped ’cause I was fucked. But I made it look cool. You know, when you put your elbows up on the tiles. And I was shocked. I looked around in my public pool, on this Wednesday afternoon, and I noticed in a public swimming pool on a Wednesday afternoon, there are three kinds of people. I’m going to be honest here. Three kinds, a bit of honesty here, three kinds of people in a public pool on a Wednesday afternoon. I seen toddlers, right. Toddlers. Paedophiles. And the mentally handicapped. Now, I felt self-conscious. It’s pretty obvious, I am not a toddler.

There comes a point in life you need to start making decisions. You need to think fast. You need to start taking your swimming gear down inside a Farmfoods bag, to show you’re not a paedo, you’re just a bit mental. Try to cut a swimming cap out of a Farmfoods bag. ‘Cause everybody that carries a Farmfoods bag has got a screw loose. That is… I don’t mean mentally handicapped, just a bit mad, right. That is the universal sign for “Do not approach me.” The Farmfoods bag. I don’t mean people with three or four Farmfoods bags. They’ve just been shopping in Farmfoods. It’s that one single, solitary, slightly faded… “This is my Farmfoods bag. “There are many others like it, but this one is mine.” I’d seen a guy with an inside-out Farmfoods bag. That is a statement of intent, isn’t it? An inside-out Farmfoods bag.

Like I said, we’ve got an obesity epidemic. Don’t know if the facilities… So we’ve got an obesity epi… You’ve got a bigger waist as well. And it means you need to shop in shitholes. You know, you walk in somewhere trendy like Topshop for a pair of jeans. Somewhere trendier than that, maybe. River Island. Walk into River Island and some… you know the sales assistants that work in these places… some indie-band freak show, they come bouncing across to serve you. “Hey, man! Yeah! Whoo!” Telling you to “chill-ax”. “Why don’t you just chill-ax, man?” Anybody ever told you to chill-ax? They’ve took the word “chill” and the word “relax” and combined them to make ironically the most infuriating word there’s ever been. Well, they come bouncing over. They’ve got that kind of energy and enthusiasm that oozes from people who have never been punched in the face. But you require this guy’s assistance. You’re in Topshop, they sell jeans. You’re in Topshop, you need jeans. So I had to say, “Excuse me, mate. Can I try on these jeans, please, “in a 36-inch waist.” And his enthusiasm… “Is that you? Good to see you again. Hey, 36-inch…” Try a 38. Try a 38? Fuck you, man. I asked the guy to try the jeans on in a 38-inch waist. Good call, all right? Shut it! 38-inch waist. Regardless, 36, 38-inch waist. You say to the guy, “Can I try these jeans on in a 40-inch waist?” Thirty-eight-inch waist. And the guy, his enthusiasm just drains. And he looks at you, appalled. You know, that way you would look at somebody if they just took a shite in your kettle. Imagine if somebody took a shite in your kettle – you’d be furious, wouldn’t you? That’s a social faux pas. “Did you shite in the kettle?” “I don’t come to your house and shite in your kettle. “You’ve changed, man.”

Shiteing in kettles. So I started shopping in proper shithole clothes shops. You don’t get judged in a proper shithole clothes shop. I was in a place called Dunnes Stores. It’s the hot new up-and-coming shithole clothes shop on the scene. Somewhere between Primark and shoplifting. Now, I’ve got a theory about clothes shops. I find in a clothes shop, the cheaper the clothes, the more aggressive the customer. Anybody ever done that thing, you’d be in a shop and you confuse another shopper for being a member of the staff, right? You go to ask them a question, and they go, “I don’t actually… “I don’t actually work here.” And you go, “I thought you worked here.” And you both share a chuckle and move on. It’s finished. However, in Dunnes Stores, it’s no laughing matter. The cheaper the clothes, the more aggressive the customer, right. Tensions run through the roof in these kind of places. I was in this dump when a guy said to me, said, “Excuse me. Excuse me. “Excuse me, buddy! “How much? “How much are these?” And I said… “I don’t actually work here, buddy.” And he said, “That’s not what I fucking asked you.”

Dunnes Stores. That was my first ever, my first ever job. Part-time job. I used to work in TK Maxx. TK Maxx. Thank you. TK Maxx. I was in charge of the changing rooms. That was my job. I was the guy that would count your items, then give you a number. So, if you trying on three items, I gave you number three. And if you were trying on four items, I gave you a number four. But we only had numbers one to six. And this one time a woman was trying on seven items. And everybody was fucking freaking out. I said, “Calm ourselves”, you know. “Let’s just calm ourselves.” “Give me the six. Give me the one.”

Problem solved. Unemployment. That was my first ever job. I remember being unemployed. I used to study… I used to study psychology for three weeks. That was my thing. Psychology. Three weeks studying psychology. Get a bit freaked out. Sigmund Freud, he was a sex pest. He’d a theory that young guys have sexual feelings towards their own mothers. I remember reading this and thinking the guy has obviously never seen my mother. A lovely woman, but he wouldn’t ride her into battle. I’ve been unemployed. I feel sorry for anybody unemployed… it’s a pretty tough time to go through in your life. I remember being in the job centre. I think job centres should be renamed The Shite Job Centre. You never walk by a job centre and see in the window, “Forensic detective required.” “Barrister required.” It’s always, “Customer Service Advisor’s Assistant required.” “Could you make the tea for the guy who makes the coffee?”

I remember being in the job centre. Everything is: “Must have experience, must have qualifications”. I’m just a dickhead, never had much of that. Last option, just left school, you can join the army. And you’ve got the British Army recruitment desk. You’ve got the two guys there, Robson and Jerome. With the berets on. The guy’s going, “Come here, son. Be the best. Come on.” “D’you want to get shot? We’ll get you shot. Come on.” I’m thinking, “Me, join the army? “T-Mobile just said I don’t have enough qualification to sell phones. “Microsoft just said I don’t have enough experience to answer phones. “And you want to give me a machine gun?”

The war on terror. That was supposed to be Obama’s thing – he was gonna end that. Obama. They get quite excited… Have we got any Americans in the room? Hell, yeah. Just one guy doing a shite accent. They don’t normally come to Glasgow, the Americans. They visit Edinburgh when they come. Have we got any Edinburghers here? Big boo for Edinburghers. I don’t mean this in a disrespectful way, but I’ve never really heard the term “Edinburghers”. You know when you hear a conversation, and I don’t mean this in a disparaging way, you hear a conversation in Scotland, there’s an Invernesian, an Aberdonian, a Dundonian, a Glaswegian, and a cunt from Edinburgh. It’s true. You never hear “Edinburghers”. It’s “cunt from Edinburgh”, that’s what they’re called. Good to see we’ve got a few cunts from Edinburgh made it through. Now, I love the Americans in Edinburgh. I love them. They’re enthusiastic. You know, up at Edinburgh Castle, the Americans thinking it’s a high school. ‘Cause they hear gunshots every lunchtime.

I’ve been travelling on this tour. We were in Belfast. Belfast, for a couple of nights. I like Belfast. It’s got a kind of vibrant atmosphere. There’s a good chance things could go off at any minute in Belfast. What I mean by vibrant, I was walking through Botanic Avenue in Belfast, there’s a coffee shop called Clements. In their window it says, “Clements. We’re religious about coffee.” Which I thought was a slightly ambiguous mission statement for the city centre of Belfast. “A cappuccino, you feinian bastard.”

I was at a Christian rock festival. Never meant to be there. Christian rock fest. I was just passing through the Christian celebration festival, there was a stall set up that said, “A free toastie “for all of God’s children.” A free toastie. So I thought, “Sha’mon!” I said, “Good afternoon. Good afternoon, sir, may I have a toastie?” And the guy said, “Are you a Christian?” And I thought, “Well, if I’m not a Christian, am I not getting a toastie?” “That’s very un-Christian.” And the guy crumbled under the weight of my argument. And he said, “Okay, you can have cheese or cheese and ham.” And I said, “Oh, just cheese, mate. “‘Cause I’m a Jew.” That’s how you get a free toastie off the Lord people.

You know the big debate between religion and science? You know, atheism’s becoming quite cool in 2010. The big debate between religion and science. I would always take religion, purely on a basic level. Remember at school, you know, science was quite difficult. Right? You had to read stuff and remember stuff, right? Whereas religious was a skive. Just some guilt-ridden middle-aged women reading passages from the Bible to a class full of hyperactive adolescents that’s pissing themselves laughing at something that’s been drawn on the blackboard. I mean, that was a skive.

I’d like to believe in something. I mean, you don’t just live and then die and that’s it, finish. I’d like to believe there’s something bigger than this. Know what I mean? It’s hard. You think, where’s the evidence? If there’s a God, why is there so much evil? And why is there famine, corruption and greed, stuff like that? Maybe you need to make up your own theories, right? I’ve combined a bit of religion, a bit of atheism and came to my own conclusions. Maybe God created the world, but then he fucked off. He’s God, he’s gonna have more than one property, ain’t he? Maybe we’ve got the place to ourselves. We’ve got an empty. This is the world. And like all good empties, it’s got a bit out of hand. That’s why you’ve get terrorism, corruption, greed. Maybe God will come back one day and go, “Look at the fucking state of this place.” “Everybody get out.” With your world leaders and corrupt bankers, people shuffling at the door going, “Sorry, we never thought you were coming back, mate. Sorry about the mess.” The Pope, certainly now the Pope knows he’s getting grounded. “I’ll speak to you in a minute, Pope.” No, live and let live. Believe what you want to believe, unless you’re a dick, that’s my motto.

Did election fever grab you? Anybody vote in election? Anybody get interested in our big election this year? I watched the three leadership debates and I thought, “Wow! “I’m definitely going to draw a cock and balls on the ballot paper.” It was quite good when Gordon Brown got caught on the microphone. You know, they said he just got unlucky ’cause a microphone just died as… It just managed to catch him saying what he said. I think he got pretty lucky. If the microphone had stayed on we’d have heard what he really thought. “Oh, just some bigoted old woman, you know. “Whose idea was that? Was that Sue’s idea? “Absolute disaster. Just a bigoted old… “What she needed was a good fucking ride, that’s what she needs.” “Eastern European immigrants. Just a good cock, that’s what she needs.”

You need Eastern European immigrants. I was in a party with Polish people. There was one Polish guy, I was speaking to him, right, the Polish guy never spoke any English, and I don’t speak much Polish. So it became apparent that a conversation would present some significant linguistical challenges. And I remembered I done some French when I was younger. French – find the common denominator with the Polish guy. So I said, eh, “Parlez-vous français?” And the Polish guy says, “Oui. ” I’m going, “Cool.” See, “parlez-vous français” is kind of all I’ve got in the tank. But the Polish guy now thinks I speak French, so… He’s going: “Oui. ” Next day, “Who told that Polish guy he could take a shite in the kettle?”

You need a bit of immigration in the world. No, you need a few. I feel sorry for asylum seekers. Their applications get expelled, they get accused of lying. Lying about being in danger. I think if somebody’s prepared to travel thousands of miles in the back of a lorry, starving themselves for weeks, risking their lives at the border controls, just to get a council flat in Sighthill, something’s frightening the shite out of them.

You know the BNP, this year they got forced to allow non-white people to join the BNP. I thought that was pretty cool. I’d encourage people from every ethnic group to join the BNP. Ruin their party. I’d love to live in a country where the white supremacists are black. “I’m supposed to be racist. Who’s this guy? How is he in my team?”

We had a bit of racial animosity in this city, in Glasgow, when we got our terrorist attack. Remember that? Glasgow airport, we got our own little terrorist attack. Pretty proud of that. Kind of put us on the map. Islamic fundamentalists attacked New York, Madrid, London and then Glasgow. We were fucking flattered. My dad had a tear in his eye. “It’s a proud day, son.” I saw it on the telly. “Well, I’ve been there.” “I’ve parked there!” And everybody had a laugh, but terrorism does have a negative side. It did create a kind of racial divide. I witnessed this firsthand on a train, going down south on this train. Just me sitting here and a middle-aged guy sitting just along a bit. Now, a couple of stops later, a women of Asian appearance boarded the train and sat beside the middle-aged guy, who immediately stood up and walked away. You ever seen that film Snakes on a Plane? This was jakes on a train, right? That’s funny. Walked away… The middle-aged guy stood up and just walked away and sat beside me. He started to nudge me. You know that way a scumbag presumes you’re also gonna be a scumbag? Nudging me, and he’s pointing, and he said, “I don’t fancy sitting beside her, pal. “No chance. She’ll be one of their suicide bombers. “I’m taking no chances.” I thought, “I can see your logic here, mate, “you thought she might be a suicide bomber. “So you’ve came and sat four seats away?” Seriously underestimating the power of Semtex. “Think she’s got a stink bomb?” “This is the jihad for Allah!” “Oh, it’s fucking bowfin here!” “Open that window. Smelly Taliban bastards. Oh…” That is disgusting. Somebody got a can of Febreze? There’s been a terrorist attack.

That is absolutely minging. And you’re stuck with the guy the whole way. Going down south, going to London. The guy said, “You going to London?” And I said, “I’m going to London.” And he said, “I don’t like London.” Guys like me and you, mate, we are the foreigners in London. They’re coming over here, mate, and they’re speaking Punjabi. I loved the way the guy said “Punjabi”. It was pretty funny. “They’re speaking Punjabi.” “And wearing these burkas, mate. This is our country. If they want to come into our country, “they should at least be adapting to our culture.” And I’m looking at this guy, thinking, “I bet when he goes abroad, “he really blends in.” Walking about Lanzarote looking for a Greggs. “You don’t understand my accent? A Daily Record, you dick!”

The summertime’s approaching. Holiday time’s coming up. Anybody going on holiday? Oh, yeah! I’ve been on a few different types of holidays. I went on holiday when I was younger, like seven years old, there was a big age gap between me and my brother. So I had to go at seven years old, with just me, my mum and dad, and I’d be bored on the first day. My mum would say, “Don’t worry. Don’t worry. I’ll find you a wee pal. “Don’t worry, we’ll find you a wee friend. We’ll find you somebody to play with.” You get introduced to some little stray. He would come with a disclaimer. “Kevin, this is Brandon. Brandon, he doesn’t like the pool.” And I’d say, “Hi, Brandon.” He’d say, “Hi, Kev.” Brandon doesn’t like the sunshine. Brandon doesn’t play football. Brilliant! Two weeks in Majorca, sitting in the shade playing Connect Four with an albino.

Now, you go on holiday, lying around the pool, relaxing during the day, and here comes this guy with a T-shirt on and a whistle, who’s the leader of the kids’ club. This prick. Leader of the kids’ club. Blowing his whistle, trying to get the kids into the shallow end for a game of water polo. You’ve got all these wee, inbred, mutant bastards screaming and splashing. “Good morning!” It’s that accent again: “Mummy, Daddy just farted!” “Mummy, can I have an ice cream?” Then there’s the Scottish kids, they’re just kind of floating. They’re still fucked from the night before. “Water polo, mate? Maybe some other time, eh?” “We’re not long in, mate. We just got in, man, honestly.” “I was doing two-for-ones in that sports café last night.” “I’ve got a throat like a junkie’s carpet, man.” “Mummy, can I have an ice cream?” “Oh, Dad?” “Oh, Dad?” “Oh, Dad?” “Oh, Brian?” “Give me another one of your fags.” “Give us a fag.”

Beside you is the Scottish boy’s mum and dad. I say “dad” – Brian, I don’t know, the guy that took the hit. She’s saying, “That’s embarrassing. That is absolutely cringe-worthy. “He’s only 12 and he’s asking me for a fag.” “He’s asking me and you for a fag. He’s only 12. You better speak to him.” Your mum’s worried about looking cringe-worthy… she’s sitting there with “Lidl” and “Aldi” tattooed… “You better speak to him.” The dad goes… Brian goes, “Don’t worry, hen, I’ll speak to him.” “Ho! You fucking get your own fags, you wee dick.” They’re only a quid a packet.

Then you get a bit older, and you go on a holiday with your mates, as I’m sure a few of you are doing, a few young people. And then go on your first holiday with your mates, that’s when you see proper carnage. You go on holiday with your mates, you confuse having a laugh and being a major health-and-safety hazard. You see groups of guys walking about the airport. – “Anything to declare?” – “Aye, he’s a gay boy.” “You said, ‘Anything to declare?’ and I said ‘He’s a gay boy.’ “On us holidays. Gonna be mental, us holidays.”

The carnage starts before you even leave your own country. And on the plane, about to leave, that’s when you see chaos. On a plane, you know, guys just swinging their T-shirts round their head on the plane. There’s always one guy, delayed, he’s getting the final call, back in the departure lounge, final, final call, final call. The whole plane is delayed, seatbelts fastened, waiting to go, waiting on this guy. He finally emerges. Front of the plane, this sombrero emerges. And rather than apologise for the inconvenience and the delay that he’s caused everybody on the plane, he just kind of scopes the cabin to find the rest of his pals. And shouts… “Here we go!” And the whole plane’s thinking, “No chance.” “This plane better crash.” Guy’s swinging his T-shirt round his head, singing.

It’s the kind of flight that you want to see a hijacker on, on that plane. You won’t see an al-Qaeda suicide-bomb attempt on that plane, Glasgow to Palma. I don’t mean that in a self-congratulatory way. I think the hijackers would have the manpower, the willpower, determination, and the belief. The only stumbling block would be getting a word in. On that flight, Glasgow to Palma. You’ve spent the last 15 years of your life in Taliban training camps on the flight simulator, ready to die for a cause you believe in, ready to give your life for 72 virgins. For Allah, for the jihad. You’re on that plane. You try to stay focused – must be pretty intense. The place you need to go to inside your mind to commit such an atrocity. You try to concentrate whilst an inflatable crocodile gets smacked up the back of your head. “Gonna pass that back up, mate? Cheers.” But the show must go on. The kamikaze headband goes on. You’re in the aisle, shouting, “Allah Akbar! Allah Akbar!” Nobody bats an eyelid. People singing and banging the windows. “Allah Akbar!” People having drunken conversations, just… “Are We Humans or Are We Dancers? “That song really spoke to me. Uh. “‘Cause obviously I’m human, but I like to dance. “Is there an option for a guy like me in this?” “He’s hijacking the plane? I’ll bust him. Where is he?” I’ll put the fag out in a minute, mate. I’m dealing with a potential terror threat here.” “Fucking jobsworth.” The guy’s still shouting, “Allah Akbar!” “Sit on your arse, I’m trying to see the telly.” “You just do wee cans? Pringles, Pringles? “Pringles?” And eventually, Eventually telling the guy to sit on his arse, cuddle the guy, a beautiful moment for world peace, not just sitting there, but saying “Are you killing yourself for 72 virgins, mate? “We’re going to Magaluf, man.”

I love it. Ladies and gentlemen at Glasgow, it’s been a pleasure talking to you. Thanks a lot for coming up. Goodnight, God bless. See you soon.

Where are you going? That was just a wee shite bit. Then you come back on. Away to catch the bus, away to catch the garage. So I’m back. What was that? Say again? I don’t have a clue what that guy’s saying now. I genuinely don’t know what you’re saying, mate. I’d love to hear what you’re saying, it sounds pretty coherent and stuff like that. And you’re gonna translate for the guy, an even drunker guy? No, what he said was… So… I love you! I love you as well, baby. I love you. Turned into a bit of a Michael Buble concert there. So, we’re making a DVD this evening, so you’ve been part of the audience. Thanks a lot for that. A DVD that’s probably already on sale in the barrows. Give you five DVDs for forty quid. There you go.

You’re a real bastard!

I just heard “bastard” there. I’m not even gonna… I’m not gonna ask what preceded the word “bastard”. It sounded pretty positive, to be fair. Just ended pretty severe. Bastard. Bus stop! “Tell us the bus-stop joke.” Just there. Think I’m jukebox? Put a wee quid in… I’ve got three jokes. There’s a pound. Presto! I done that joke, the bus-stop joke, that was my first ever joke on mainstream TV. I done that joke, and about three weeks… About three weeks after the show broadcast, I was at a bus stop, right? And a guy across the street shouted, “Fat boy!” “Give me a quid, or you’re getting stabbed.” And I just started laughing. The other three or four people at the bus stop, they never knew what was going on, right? They just heard this and see me laughing, and they thought that guy must be hard as nails.

I’m a bus guy. Still take public transport, I’m a bus guy. I’m a bus… I take one of their… Every area’s got a rough bus. You know, one of the kind of Glasgow safaris that you get. The number 40 bus. It runs from Clydebank to Easterhouse… via Drumchapel. As if they went, “Clydebank to Easterhouse. I’m not sure that’s mental enough. “No…” “We better stick this through Drumchapel.” On my bus, I’ve seen three generations of the one family get on for a half fair.

So, how did they enjoy the SECC? First time here, first time in the SECC? Aye. Nobody ever… Nobody talks about the show. After the SECC, they always talk about the prices, don’t they? “Guess how much?” “Guess how much we paid for three drinks? Have a guess, guess how much? “For three drinks.” The key is to aim high and kill the conversation stone dead. “50 quid.” “We thought it was quite expensive, but it sounds as if we got a bargain.”

So, we’ll finish up on a joke. Has anybody ever what? Has anybody ever shat in my kettle? Since we last did the show it’s happened on several occasions. We’ll finish up… I don’t know… How am I gonna hear what you’re saying? Does that make sense to even you guys in the audience there? Just a gun noise… A-E-I, make a sentence out of that one, dick. So, we’ll finish up. Obviously the DVD is about six months away, so we need to predict the future, or it’s gonna look pretty weird. You could watch on a DVD and wonder, “How come he never mentioned the fact that North Korea blew the world up?” or something like that. So what about England winning the World Cup, eh? What about England getting fucked? We’ll wait and see what one makes the edit. Ladies and gentlemen, goodnight, have a great journey home, God bless. Thank you.


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