Kevin Bridges: A Whole Different Story (2015) | Transcript

Kevin Bridges humorously tackles life, culture, and societal quirks in Glasgow, blending personal anecdotes with social commentary in a heartfelt performance

In a lively performance at Glasgow’s Hydro, comedian Kevin Bridges delights his hometown audience with a mix of observational humor and personal anecdotes, highlighting the absurdities of everyday life. Bridges compares his 16-night run to One Direction’s two, humorously addressing his own popularity. He touches on the effort it takes to organize a night out, the nuances of interactions with the audience, and the evolution of friendships and life stages. Bridges delves into the bizarre aftermath of a night out, the complexities of drug use, cultural differences, and the quirks of Scottish identity, politics, and economics with a mix of wit and satire. His narrative spans from personal growth and societal observations to the challenges of modern technology and the internet’s impact on social interactions, culminating in a reflection on cultural and family dynamics, showcasing his sharp humor and deep connection to his Scottish roots.

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Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Kevin Bridges!


Yes, thank you, Glasgow! Saturday Night, Glasgow. Thank you. Yes, welcome. Welcome along. The Hydro. Wow. Nice place. 16 nights I’m doing here. 16. Thank you, good people, for that. 16. One Direction only doing two. I’m doing 16. I’ll get Harry Styles on the phone. “All right, Kev, any chance you can tap us a score?” It is DVD night. Looking well. Everybody looking resplendent. Need to look your best. Christmas Day, sitting watching it, pausing it, trying to find yourself. There’s big Gordon from next door. Who is that he’s sitting beside? That’s not Stacey. Big Gordo, the shagger.

Well done for coming to something. Well done. Good for you. It’s difficult coming to something. I don’t underestimate for a second the challenges involved. It’s a lot of effort. Have to take the time to show our appreciation for the heroes, the unsung heroes, people amongst you who organise these nights. People who know when shit goes on sale. People who sit on Ticketmaster. “Page cannot be displayed.” “Server timed out.” The people who composed that original group text. Assembling the troops. The people who dared to dream that a night out could be possible. Sitting, dealing with people’s replies trickling in, sucking out their enthusiasm. “Kevin Bridges? What night is it? Where is it? How much is it? What time does it start? What time does it finish? Who else is going?” “Who else is going?” What a fucking snide enquiry. That’s when the organiser’s faced with the internal politics of the social circle. The night out needs a big name to confirm. A headline act, an A-lister pal. A crackpot. Disco. Risor. Gnasher. Somebody that can turn your night out into four nights out. “It’s only me and Scobbie going so far. I know he’s a wee prick, but he’ll drive.”

Welcome along, front row. How are we doing? You all right? Looking good. How are you doing, sir? You all right, mate? You can reply, mate. It’s live, it’s not on the fucking telly yet. We’re only making a DVD. It’s not actually… His face… “That 3D telly is a fucking beauty.” Good man. What is your name, sir? You’re not telling me? All right, that’s good. What’s his name, mate? Fucking grass him in since he’s not telling me.


Johnny? Johnny. You settling for that, Johnny? It’s only a comedy show, Johnny. You’re not getting booked by the police. It’s just a wee… Camera right on Johnny there. That’s it, mate. You make him feel like shit for that. There we go, that’s Johnny, everybody. Tell your name to the camera. Johnny.


Good man. Welcome along. I like a night out. I’m getting to that age. I’m growing up. I’ve got mates getting married, and having children. This is new to me. My life is changing. You don’t get a night out as often. The weekend is no longer an excuse in itself. I don’t get a night out, it’s rare. But when they happen, it’s a rollover and they go on far too long. I don’t think anybody can party like the newly-married man, the new father. I hear One Direction singing, ♪ I’m gonna go crazy, crazy, crazy. Until they see the sun. And singing ♪ Gonna party… Until six in the morning. All these parties that have got scheduled end times. That is not what happens when your mates start getting married and having children and you get a night out, they go on far too fucking long. People do not want to go back… .. to the life that they are creating for themselves. Mayhem ensues at the suggestion of a six-in-the-morning curfew. “Do you want to call it a night?” “Fuck, man, one more hour this bar is open. We’ll go and get cans.”

The adult empty, it’s a bleak affair. The empty, ten years on. Some paranoid wreck walking through your living room looking for a Nokia charger. “17 missed calls? I’d better fucking text her.” Highlights of a game of FIFA on the PlayStation that was finished about three hours ago still playing. Two guys snorting cocaine talking about a fight they had in primary school. “I’m fucking glad we sorted that tonight.” “Yeah, I know, mate. I was out of order at that playtime. I was out of order.” 35-year-old guy still using expressions like “playtime”. “It was me who was out of order. I was the one that kept throwing fizzy cola bottles at you. I knew you had to be seen to be doing something about that, mate. I understand. You didn’t need to call us a wee elba. That was out of order on your part.

It’s six in the morning. Nokia guy arguing with his missus by text. “I told you I was having a mad one.” His only justification for having a mad one, he fucking told her… he was having a mad one. Then staying on the offensive. “I thought you were going to your mum’s to watch Strictly anyway.” “It’s fucking six o’clock in the morning, Ryan.” “How the fuck am I supposed to know what time Strictly finishes?” Then looking at the telly. Looking at the PlayStation, thinking it’s fucking Sky Sports. “When did Motherwell beat Columbia? That’s fucking some result. Columbia had their full team playing, aye. I wish I’d stuck money on that. Seven red cards? Was there a bit of needle between them two? ♪

Six in the morning. It’s tough watching guys grow up against their will. Watching somebody going through an old VHS case that’s been used as a joint-rolling station for years. Raking through the paraphernalia trying to find something smokeable. “There’s a bit of green in there. I’ll press my finger on that. There’s plenty here, gentlemen. The night is but young. Bit of green stuff. Tobacco. Scrape that in. Hairs. “There’s always hairs in the rolling tray. I’ll put the pubes in. Who gives a fuck?”

Lying there in emotional purgatory trying to get a knackered disposable lighter to work, the only lighter in the party. Doing big, long flicks. “Come on, you piece of shit.” Eventually, get a bit of blue flame. And going, “Yes!” And the “s” blows it straight back out again. It’s hard to watch a married man lighting a pube joint off the toaster.

Do you take drugs, Johnny? There’s a cameraman. That’s it. You hinder his future employment prospects.. I’m only joking. I don’t take… I used to smoke weed, Johnny. I got busted. I got caught. We were having fajitas one Sunday as a family and I rolled a fucking belter. And it aroused far too much suspicion. From that day forward, I was under surveillance. I was evident I had obtained these skills elsewhere no doubt through illicit activity, as this was the first time we had ever sampled Mexican cuisine as a family. I’ll take the back seat letting everybody else go first. They are putting together these big abominations, big, baggy, reckless bastards. Salsa bombers going down their t-shirts. I’m biding my time just surveying the devastation at the table, the mess. My own family, a disgrace to the art of rolling. Then I stepped up, saying, “Pass me the skins… eh, the tortillas.” I took three tortillas out of the packet. There’s the hash smokers in there. “Are you having three fajitas, Kevin?” “No, Gran, I’m gonna stick these together with some guacamole. Don’t worry, Gran, you’ll get a pass. And don’t hog it. I know what you’re like. And don’t get it all wet at the end.” Putting the grated cheese right across my set-up there. You got a grinder…? Don’t say grinder, shut up. Rolled it up. Tucked it right in. Asking my gran to take off her crucifix so I could just stuff a bit down at the end there. Just about stopped myself before I ripped a bit of cardboard off the old El Paso box. ♪ Six in the morning Where are you from, Johnny? Airdrie? Airdrie. Good to see. He’s got a wee fan club there. Quite a lot of people. People booing Airdrie obviously. Coatbridge? Coatbridge. Airdrie. Anybody not from Scotland? Anybody come from further afield than Airdrie? Which is a pretty depressing question to ask. South Africa! South Africa? “All right, my lady.” “My lady.” I only know that… I just know South Africa for all the wrong reasons. The Pistorius trial, that’s all I’ve got for you. That was a great holiday watching the murder trial. “Oh, my lady, I didn’t know it was Reeva, my lady.” If only that had made it to South Africa. “Duh,” when somebody was talking shite. That’s what that trial needed, the whole jury… “Oh, my lady, I didn’t know it was her.” Duh! Welcome, welcome. That was good. They should have got him steaming. That’s how you get the truth out of any man. Get him fucking hammered. That is a lie detector in court. Get a few cans in him. Let him start unwinding a bit. Then get him on the shots, then get him where he’s lighting his fag but he’s talking that much shite, his fag keeps going out. He’s hammered. “All right, I’ll fucking tell you what happened. I was busting for a shite. And she was taking fucking ages. I was touching cloth, my lady, and I panicked.” South Africa. Anybody not from Scotland, where have I got? Where are you from? Detroit? Detroit. No fucking shit, man. – Detroit? Genuine? What is your name? – Jennifer! Jennifer? From Detroit. How long have you been in Glasgow, Jennifer? – A decade. – A decade? That’s ten year in Glasgow talk. Ten year, you say. None of that “decade” shite. You would fail your citizenship test on that, Jennifer. Ten year. You don’t say “years”. None of that plural pish either. Ten year. You get a very honest game of Scrabble in Glasgow. “Years?” He’s not getting five for that. No chance. Detroit? No fucking way, man. Scotland, we are on the map. We attract tourists. People give a fuck about Scotland these days. We got put on the map. Especially last year. We had the civil war, didn’t we, Scotland? People asked… I had an American in a pub in New York asking me about that. About the big vote we had. It was difficult to explain. The guy is going, “Hey, man, are you from Scotland?” I said, “Yes.” I was gonna say “Aye” but I translated. I said, yes. I’d been on the Rosetta Stone prior to the trip. And the guy goes, “What the fuck happened over there, man, in Scotland? Who would have thought Scotland would vote against freedom? Like, what the fuck?” “It was a bit more complicated than that, pal.” And he was going, “What about William Wallace and Robert the Bruce? You guys fucking said, no?” “Aye, we thought Asda were gonna put their prices up.” “We’re a proud people, pal, but I don’t know how much we’re prepared to pay for crispy pancakes.” It was a crazy time in Scotland, that left us questioning our whole identity. Even I’m looking at Scottish money, “No wonder the English don’t accept this shite. Who is that guy?” “It’s not the fucking Queen, mate.” “I know it’s not the Queen, mate. I don’t know who it is. Just some guy. Clydesdale Bank’s employee of the month or something. Just be happy for the wee guy. Picture him at a house party. Six in the morning. Showing his pals his note. “I’m on the note.” Rolling it up, snorting coke through it. “Look at me now, Ma, I’m a tenner.” We all got into it, didn’t we, politics? We’ve got a whole country that could resit higher modern studies. It’s good, it’s an education. Sitting on Facebook posting links to articles you’ve not even read yet. That was us. People threatening to leave the country. Michelle Mone, she left, didn’t she? Michelle Mone. Somebody needs to sit her down. “Michelle… Mone.” Mone Michelle. Mone. Mone to fuck, Michelle.

Are you a political man, Johnny? Nah? You don’t give a shit. I watch it. I like the politics. I’ve started buying the big papers. I never knew the big papers were as expensive. I thought it’d be the same price. Standing in the queue at the newsagent with my pound coin making plans for the change. “£1.80.” “Fuck. Do you take cards, mate?” “Only if it’s over a fiver.” “All right, a Daily Telegraph and 16 packets of Hubba Bubba, mate.” I watch it. The Tories, that’s who we’ve got, reducing the deficit. The economy, that is what is going on. Austerity Britain. Making cuts.

[Audience boos]

I watch ’em. [English accent] David Cameron. “We must work together to reduce the deficit.” That is what is going on. Reducing the deficit. I read about the deficit. Do you know about the deficit, big guy? Britain’s debt, £1.5 trillion. That is how much the UK owes somebody. £1.5 trillion. I dunno who the fuck we owe that to, but… Surely they’ve gave up on it? Surely… Surely when it hit the trillion mark, they must have been having their doubts about ever seeing it back. I’ve enjoyed Greece. I like their attitude. That is how you treat debt.

[Audience cheers]

Having a great time. It’s got to the end. Everybody is on their case, the IMF, the EU. They are just telling them to go and fuck themselves. Well done, Greece. Angela Merkel on the phone going fucking mental. Greece have just got her on loudspeaker, just laughing at her. Sitting drinking bottles of ouzo, letting her shout at them.

[German accent] “You must make the repayment now!” “240 billion euros.” Going through their books on Greek philosophy, trying to quote their way out of the mess. Angela, as Socrates says, “He is richest who is content with least.” That is a fucking beauty, man. Any more? Or as Epicurus said, “Do not spoil what you have by desiring what you have not, Angela.” “Here, let me talk to her.” Or as Plato says, “You’re not getting it, you fucking cow.”

Good on them. Everybody knows somebody like Greece. I’ve got mates like Greece. They are likeable, but you don’t lend them money unless you’re prepared to deal with the shite when you try and get it back. They are saying that, Johnny, Greece actually accused Germany of owing Greece 279 billion euros because of the Nazi occupation in the 1940s. Fucking classic tactics. “Oh, we were not gonna mention it, Angela, but since you are chasing us up…” We are paying it back, £1.5 trillion, that is the plan. Reduce the deficit. The deficit means you spend too much money. Don’t bring enough money in. Tory solution, make cuts. I think we just need to start making some more fucking money. All these billionaire psychos putting their taxes into the Cayman Islands. They tell you that as if the money is irretrievable. Fucking invade the Cayman Islands. Get it back. What the fuck are the Cayman Islands gonna do about it? Instead of going after disabled people and fucking single parents. That takes balls. That takes balls, George Osborne, Ian Duncan Smith… ..looking through disabled people’s doors, “This is your fucking fault, mate, you. We could go after tax-avoiding multinationals. We could go after Vodafone, Starbucks, Amazon, Google, Gary Barlow, but it is your fucking fault. You.” “You’re going back to work, mate. We don’t give a fuck how disabled you are. Oh, you’re paralysed from the neck down. We don’t give a fuck, mate. There will be a farm out there looking for a scarecrow. Fucking go to the farm.” Got people checking for the offside flag on that joke there.

Maybe an extreme example, but that’s… That is their ideal world, cutting benefits, and people fall for it. People believe it. Moaning, you see them on Facebook. You discover through Facebook you hate your own fucking aunties. Aye. Reading their shite. “I have worked… I have worked my whole life and I’ve worked two jobs since I’ve been 12 years old and I think it’s a disgrace that these people are sitting on their fat arses… They are spending their dole cheques on alcohol and cigarettes. It’s a downright disgrace. You’re missing the point, man. They are spending it on alcohol and cigarettes, highly taxable goods. The country is getting it back. These people are reinvesting. These people are the heroes in this mess. It’s not poor people spending, it’s fucking rich people saving, that is the problem. The money is there, just need to give it to people that will fucking spend it. I would put the dole up. I would make the dole a grand a week. That is how you kick-start an economy. Every bit of it would get spent. You can see it on Black Friday, poor people. Imagine them on £1,000 a week. The country would be fucking bouncing. Not one penny going offshore or into your savings account. “Let’s get fucking tattoos, man.” People arriving at the job centre in taxis to sign on. “Just keep your meter running, my man. I’ll be five minutes.” “That is the dole up to a grand a week, Denise. Do you still want your tits done?” “Aye, we’ll get the hot tub. Fuck it, why not?” Grand a week.

I’ve made a bit of dosh, thanks to you people. I have fucking moved on. I’ve made some cash. I’m on the property ladder. That’s what I done, I bought a house off a neurologist. That builds an inferiority complex. I’m showing up to buy his gaff in a fucking Super Dry hoodie. Guy is giving me the tour. Showing me his PhD. “That’s nice, mate.” We’ll get that down and get that painting of dogs playing poker up there. I grew up in a council house. I grew up in Clydebank. A lot of people know that. Famous place. Famous for Wet Wet Wet… Marti Pellow, He’s the only guy who ever left Clydebank to become a heroin addict. But I’m in the West End. I’m in the nice bit, in the city. I’m living. I’m living with the great and the good. It’s where I live. I’ve been there for a few years. But it’s never quite become my bit. I mean… you’ve got where you stay and you’ve got your bit. Eh? That make sense? There is where you live and there is your bit. It’s not… I don’t know if it will ever become my bit. I see the kids whose bit it is. – I hear them shouting on each other. – “Sebastian.” “Sebastian, we’re over here. Sebastian.” I hear a name like Sebastian, I’m hoping to look up and see a dalmatian. Not this wee fucking git. Sebastian making his grand entrance with his purple blazer on. His perm wafting in the wind. A cello on his back.

They call me “Mr Bridges,” the kids in my street. I don’t feel intimidated phys… I feel intellectually intimidated by the gangs of youth in my street. “Mr Bridges, how are we? How are we, Mr Bridges? The family and I sat down to one of your performances on the television over the festive period, Mr Bridges.” “A tad coarse in places.” “However, I would be lying if I said I didn’t allow myself a chuckle, Mr Bridges.” A wee guy. I’m out of my fucking depth, trying to talk to him! I’m having to raise my game to talk to a ten-year-old. I can’t have a normal, older-guy-to-a-wee-guy conversation. Who’s the best fighter in your school, then, Sebastian? “I’m the chair of the school debating team, Mr Bridges. There have been a few heated exchanges, but we’ve not quite come to blows… yet.” His wee pal’s beside him. Fucking deseeding a pomegranate with his fruit knife.

I still wear trainers and stuff. I never knew that was frowned upon, wearing sports gear. Unless you’re off to participate in a sporting activity. I still wear shorts and trainers, any excuse. I’ve got a neighbour who always looks at me, always looking me up and down. “Off to the gym, Kevin? Off to the gym?” I said, “Mate, why do you always ask me if I’m off to the gym?” “It was just when I seen your trainers and sports top. Off to the gym, no?” No. I’m off to the garage to buy a Wispa, mate. It’s not a fucking black-tie event, mate.

I try and blend in. I’m quite a friendly guy. I’ve got a dog, for example. That’s how you get to know your new neighbours. You become part of your local dogging community. I got a dog. That’s your buddy. I got a dog. In the park, dogs are there. Other dogs come over and start to play with your dog. You pat the other dog and you get talking to the owner. Quite a sociable experience. I’m in the park, my dog’s there. Another dog came over, began to play with my dog, began sniffing my dog’s arse. Sniffing away. Having a fucking great time. I’m patting the other dog and I says to him, “Who’s this?” That’s dog walker talk for, “What is your dog’s name?” That’s how you strike up a bit of chat. I said, “Who’s this?” And the guys goes, “This here is Diego.” I thought, “Naming the dog after Diego Maradona, mate. “That will explain the sniffing, then, right?” I thought that was the ideal thing to say. Fucking hilarious, I’ve got a voice in my head, going, “Superb, Kev.” “An exemplary piece of patter. This will be your bit in no time, Kev. I’m asking his dog for the paw of God, thinking this guy’s is going to spread the word. “Yeah, I met Kevin Bridges in the park. The guy’s funny as fuck, even off duty.” “The man’s a scream.” But the guy says, “No, the dog’s not named after Diego Maradona. We named him after Diego Rivera, the post-Impressionist, 19th-century, Mexican, protest painter.” This was a game changer. I had fucking nothing for the guy. Wow. I looked him right in the eye. “I cannot believe you’ve just done that to me, mate. I don’t know what to say. I’ve never felt so homesick.” A voice in my head going, “This is not your bit, Kev, go home. You don’t belong here. You’re a fucking fraud. The sniffing patter, that might cut it down your bit. This is the upper echelons of society. You think you’re going to get away with that up here? Even his dog is looking at your dog as if my da just fucking clamped your da.” And he just carried on with his day.

And I’m left on my phone, having to Google this arsehole. Under pressure. Another fucking thing I do not know has just been exposed. I’m on Wikipedia reading about this guy. “Diego Rivera was a Mexican painter known for his large wall works in the style of fresco.” I don’t know what that means. Let’s go back to the start, Kevin. Let’s concentrate. Learning is fun. Come on. This is the kind of shit you need to know to hold conversations up in this park. “Diego Rivera was a Mexican…!” You know what a Mexican is – Tequila, sombreros… Remember that big fajita? Remember that big blunt you rolled? Mexicans would love you, Kev. “Mexican painter…” You know what a painter is. You’re Uncle Kenny’s a painter. Remember Uncle Kenny? He used to always sneak you and your cousins a can at Christmas, remember?” “Uncle Kenny, how come Auntie Denise lives in New Zealand?” “Drink your fucking can, son.” Remember Uncle Kenny? “Known for his large wall works in the style of fresco.” I don’t know what “fresco” means? But Fresco is highlighted in blue, meaning it’s got its own Wikipedia page. Why not make an afternoon out of it? I click on that line. I’ve not even made it through the opening sentence of Diego Rivera’s Wikipedia page and I’m on another Wikipedia page, reading about fresco. “Fresco is a technique of mural painting “executed upon wet or freshly-laid lime plaster.” I don’t know what lime plaster is, but that is also highlighted in blue. “Click on that one, Kevin. Is there anything that you do fucking know, Kev?” “Lime plaster is a type of plaster composed of hydrated lime, water and sand. “Lime plaster is different from -” Why are you reading this, Kevin? You’re supposed to be reading about Diego Rivera. Remember why you came here. You went to fresco, now you’re onto lime plaster. You’ve got fucking ADD.

I’m Googling, “Have I got Attention Deficit Disorder?” I’m taking the University of Maryland’s six short questions to determine if I have Attention Deficit Disorder. I’m about to diagnose myself with a mental health condition because of this fucking phone, this tadger and his wee shitey dog. Even my dog is looking at me, as if, “Get over it, Kev. Hurry up and throw that tennis ball.” Give me a minute, Annie. I’m not well. I’m mentally ill. Please be patient. I need your support just now, dog. Taking the test. The University of Maryland’s six short questions to determine if I have Attention Deficit Disorder. “Do you sometimes struggle with the final parts of a project “once the challenging parts have been finalised? All of the time; most of the time; some of… Ten celebrities you didn’t know were gay.” Don’t give in, Kevin. Don’t click on it. Don’t fucking click on it. Don’t… “14 reasons you’re always tired.” I’m always tired. I think I might have that chronic fatigue syndrome. Fucking finish the ADD test. How the fuck can I finish the ADD test if I’ve got ADD?

I went back. I read about Rivera. I got tooled up on this guy. Educated myself. “Diego Rivera was born in 1886. Rivera began painting at the age of three years old, a year after the death of his twin brother. Rivera would paint on his bedroom walls. His parents, rather than chastising him, installed chalkboards and canvas on the walls to encourage his gift. At the age of just ten years old, Rivera was accepted into the San Carlos Academy of Fine Art in Mexico City, where he studied until 1907 before moving to Europe, where he became friends with Pablo Picasso.” I’ve got fucking shit loads…


Off to the gym. I’ve lost a bit of weight. I don’t know if anybody noticed that. Lost a bit. People worry about you in this city when you lose weight. I had a guy shout, “For fuck’s sake, Kev, have you got AIDS?” Which is… just a local way of saying, “Looking sharp, Kev. You’ve been working it.” I’ve got a jaw. Look at that. I’ve never had a fucking jaw in my life. I’ve always been fat. I was fat my whole life, right through school. This has been a long time coming. I was 18 stone when I was 18. I was fat. At school, that was tough. Sitting in a plastic chair at school at the end of every class, knowing that there was going to be a sea of sweat that’s been separating the two hemispheres of your arse. Sitting beside the lassie that you fancied, having to do that slide, trying to wipe it as you’re getting up.

It was tough. I was fat at school. I was the first in my class to get tits. It’s hard. Going swimming on a school trip. “No. I’ll just keep my t-shirt on. The water’s dead cold. I’m all right, I’ll swim with my t-shirt on.” I went to a guy. 18, that’s when I first addressed the problem. 18 stone. I went to the gym. A real gym. You know, the big, proper gym guys. The real fucking big tanks. This new breed of man that you get. You know, the big mammals, the big protein bastards. With the big beard, covered in tattoos. Did I create you in a PlayStation game? The big guys. You work in the Carphone Warehouse, but they’re training for the apocalypse. Convinced their best mate’s shagging their missus and they’re training for the day they can finally prove it. And that’s what puts fat people off the gym. These guys take it too far. “Only God can judge me.” I’m standing here judging you, you big fucking bell end. I went to the guy and said, “Look, mate, I’m trying to lose a bit of weight.” The guy goes, “It’s all about nutrition. It’s all about nutrition. Do whatever you want in here, but it’s all about nutrition.” You can’t out-train a bad diet.” And he asked me what I had for breakfast. “What did you have for breakfast this morning?” Instantly, I’m thinking I’d better say something that I never had for breakfast this morning. Make a good impression by this big fucking mammal. I said, “Oh, I had fruit, mate. A bowl of fruit. The guy’s going, “Fruit in the morning, that’s got to go. Fruit in the morning, very high in sugar, you need to lose that.” I’m like, “Fruit, mate. That’s bad for you now, fucking fruit. Fruit. I never had a bowl of fruit, but as far as you’re aware I did have a bowl of fruit. So I should be commended. I had a fucking Terry’s Chocolate Orange, mate.” “You’ve no idea how low I would stoop for breakfast. Cold peshwari naan with Nutella on it. I’ve been there, mate. And you’re on my case about fucking fruit!” “I used to have four raspberry ice poles and a Wham bar for breakfast “at half-past eight every morning for six years. And a roll on sausage at half-past ten. A pizza crunch and chips at 12 o’clock, a can of Coke and then fucking Astro Belts on the way home. Fucking fizzy cola bottles, Bikers, Johnny’s Onion Rings, everything.

[Audience cheering]

Then you get home for Crispy Pancakes, oven chips, potato waffles, croquettes. “Yellow, mate. That was the only colour I would eat – yellow.” “And you’re on my case about fruit.” I never said that cos the guy would punch fuck out of me, but I was thinking that. I said, “All right, I’ll cut out the fruit.” The guy gave me a diary to fill in. A food diary, that’s a step too far. Submitting handwritten lies to somebody. He’s telling me all these foods to cut out. “Carbohydrates – you shouldn’t eat this shit. Eat this sort of stuff.” I’m filling in my food diary. On the Internet, reading about superfoods. Trying to impress the big man. Monday morning, I had avocado. Avocado. Hey, what the fuck’s avocado, in case this guy asks me? You have it on toast? He’ll go off his head if I say toast. I’ll just say I had avocado. How many? How many? Five? Five avocado. Fuck it, I’ll put ten. Ten avocado. Show the guy I’m serious about it. Ten avocado. Monday morning – breakfast. Then I had almonds and blueberries and beetroot. Beetroot, that’s a super food, isn’t it? A jar of beetroot, mate. Got a spoon, rattled the lot. Mm! Then I had quinoa. Quinoa. Am I saying that right? Quinoa? What the fuck is quinoa? Quinoa? What the fuck is that? Click on images. It’s a powder. Snorted a couple of lines of quinoa. And then I had oily fish and I really felt it reducing my risk of Alzheimer’s. And the guy’s gone, “This is great. Kev. Is this the truth?” I said, “No, mate. The truth would break your fucking heart. I’ll tell you the truth.” “I lasted two meals without carbohydrates and I thought I was going fucking insane.” “I’ve never felt so angry. I had to get off the couch and just lie on the floor, staring at the ceiling, trying to take myself to a happier place, fantasising about carbohydrates. I never knew what a carbohydrate was until you told me to cut them out. And then you grassed them all up.” I’m lying there. “Oh, I would love a spaghetti toastie right now. Mm, how good would that be? Or a baked potato with rice in the middle.” “And I could put that on a sandwich. When was the last time I had that?” Piece on baked totty and rice, eh? Mm! With a wee spaghetti toastie chaser. Oh, yes.” “Then I crumbled, mate. I went rampaging through my own kitchen. In the freezer, there was a tub of Ben & Jerry’s that had been there for months. And because it had been there for so long, the little wooden spoon that you get inside a tub of Ben & Jerry’s had bent and snapped on impact on the ice cream. So I had to put the tub of Ben & Jerry’s in the microwave. Now… I left it in the microwave a bit longer than I should have done and the ice cream melted. So, rather than have just a few wooden spoonfuls as I had initially intended, I drank the fucking lot, mate.” I never knew how to fit that in to Monday evening’s column.

It’s too extreme. If you’re fat, you’re at a tremendous advantage when it comes to losing weight. Bear that in mind. I was 18 stone at 18. Now I’m 28 and I’m 14 stone. Right, that’s four stone… I’ve lost.

[Audience cheering]

Thank you. To those of you applauding that you’re applauding a man who’s lost four stone… in just ten years. Admittedly, a pretty difficult diet to market. I’m not gonna get on the front cover of Reveal with that story. How I shifted four stone in just ten years. A before and after photograph. There’s me with a fucking school uniform on in the before.

Simple. Simple changes, that’s what you need to make. That’s what the four-stone-in-ten-years programme encourages. Small steps. Don’t have McCoys, have Quavers. Simple changes. You don’t need to go to bed with a two-litre bottle of Fanta and a tube of Pringles every night. Small changes. You don’t need to lose junk food. Just Google it first. “What is healthy to eat from the Chinese?” Go on. Yahoo answers. Ignore the top answer. Some nutritionist from the University of Arkansas: “All Chinese food is usually fried. There’s always very large portions. It usually contains a chemical called mono-sodium glutamate, which is highly addictive and fattening.” Fuck all. Just keep scrolling down. Keep scrolling until you find what you want to find. What about this guy? “Sweet and sour chicken is quite healthy, as long as you peel the batter off at least three of the chicken bones.” “If you’re putting fried rice on a prawn cracker, don’t have a lid. Just have the one prawn cracker.” It’s these simple changes that will help you shift four stone in just ten years.

Then the rest comes. Then you can exercise. Then you adopt a dog. That’s your exercise buddy. Get up the Dogs Trust. Get a dog that’s done a bit of jail time. Adopt a rescue dog. Get up there. It’s like The Shawshank Redemption. Two dogs to a cell. Younger dog trying to impress you. Older dog at the back, playing its harmonica. Scraping a cup up and down the cell. Sneering at the younger dog. “You’re never getting out of here, boy.” I could wake that dog up, having a wee dog dream, lying there. One hand on the belly. We’ll go on a jog to Edinburgh. Fuck it, let’s go on a fucking jog to Edinburgh. Let’s jog back as well, me and my fucking pal. You’ve got hobbies. I took up tennis. I tried that. I lasted one night. I show up at the local tennis club. Guy goes, “Yeah, you’re on court No.4.” “We need bats, mate.” You don’t have racquets? Of course we don’t have racquets since it’s my first night at a new hobby. “I’ve got a bottle of Lucozade and a fiver, mate. That’s all you bring.” Everybody knows that’s all you bring at your first night at a new hobby.” Trying to play tennis, you end up losing the plot. Trying to serve, you end up just meeting up at the net to discuss rule changes. “Will we just make it?” becomes the theme of the evening. Will we just make it? You can serve underarm and it can bounce anywhere. Instead of 15, 30, 40, we’ll just make it one-nil, two-nil, three-nil… And your pal starts beating you as if he’s fucking great at it. Starts offering you feedback. “I’ve noticed you’re lifting your head.” “Fuck you! As if you’re any fucking good at it!” That’s the sport here, innit? Tennis. Andy Murray, he’s fucking changed this place. Who would’ve thought? Who would’ve thought? Scotland becoming a tennis country! Who would’ve thought? It’s the working man’s sport, innit? You walk into a rough pub in Glasgow and there’s tennis on. Volatile atmosphere. “No tennis!” signs up all over the pub. Guys arguing long into the night. “You’re gonna sit there, Del, and tell me that Nalbandian would beat Djokovic on a clay court!”

Derek, you’re embarrassing yourself. That’s how stereotypes change. Northern Ireland, they’re into golf. Have we got any Belfast in? One guy there. Good man. Bel… Where are you from? Belfast? Where is he? You, mate. You. What’s your name? – Ian. – Ian? Ian. That’s a fucking accent, innit? They make us sound like Michael Bublé. There’s a bomb in the biscuit tin. – How long have you been in Glasgow, Ian? – Since 1985. Since 1985? You just got fed up with… shite weather, religious intolerance. You thought, “Fuck this! I’m off to Glasgow!” Good man. ’85! 1985! The first time I was in Belfast, the hotel I was staying was beside an ’80s bar. I thought that was funny. Ian, an ’80s bar – in Belfast! Of all the cities in the world where you don’t want to go and celebrate the ’80s. What the fuck goes on in there? People rubbing shite on the walls? Petrol bombs getting chucked across the dance floor? “Who gives a fuck? Karma Chameleon’s on! Yeah!” “I’m a man without conviction.” No, it’s changed hasn’t it, Ian? Golf, that’s the sport. Tennis, Scotland. Golf, Northern Ireland: Rory McIlroy, Darren Clarke. They’ve ditched the guns, bought golf clubs. Progress. They’re still chucking the odd petrol bomb, but they’re shouting, “Fore!” You know, giving each other a bit of… A bit of support. A bit of feedback on their game. What you’ve gotta do there, picture the shot first. Get that fucking police station in your sites there. Just stand. Shoulders straight. Bend your fucking knees. I waited for you.

Well, I’ll be fat again. Don’t worry, I’ll be fat. I’ll be back. I’m looking sharp, but I’ll be back. I’m one all-inclusive holiday away from fucking meltdown. Don’t worry.

I’ll be back. Did you go on your holidays this year? Big guy? – Aye. – Aye. – Aye. Where did you go, sir? – Majorca. Majorca. You and the good lady, was it? Aye. Good man. Any big holiday arguments, no? Aye. A few. Get the camera on ’em. Let’s dig some dirt here. That’s tradition. When you go with your missus, a big holiday bust-up. Big fucking 35-degree argument. Carrying a five-litre bottle of water and a lilo up a hill. Your flip-flops keep falling back down the fucking hill. Eventually, just booting them off. “Fucking flip-flops. The pavement’s too warm. Where’s my fucking flip-flops? You get that one! I’ll get that one! Five litres?! How many times are we gonna brush our fucking teeth on this holiday, anyway?” Or a water park. That’s it. If your relationship can survive a water park argument, that’s love. Sitting on a big, inflatable yellow ring. Trying to get the last word in before you begin your sharp decline. “I’m an arsehole? Well, who fucking paid for the holida-a-a-ay?” And you need to wait on the other one coming down. The two of you buzzing. The adrenaline’s going. Put your ring back. You’ve cheered up, but you’re fucked if you’re letting your face know you’ve cheered up. “I’m going to enjoy this bad mood. I’ve worked hard all year for this bad mood.” Even if something funny happens. You’ve got white shorts. They’re wet. Everybody can see your arse cheeks and your pubes. It’s funny, is it? What, nobody here’s seen an arse before? How mature? How mature? I never knew guys shaved their pubes. I don’t give a fuck. Ha-ha! Everybody laugh at me, for fuck’s sake! I like a bit of Spain. Any Spanish in? Aye! Aye? You, mate? You?! What part of Spain? Fucking Shettleston? “Aye”? – What’s your name, sir? – Stevie. Stevie? Stevie from Spain? Stevie… Good man, Stevie. How long have you been in Scotland, Stevie? Aye, we’ll give up there. We peaked at that, Stevie. Busted. Well, that’s you on the telly now, Stevie, Christmas Day. He’ll rent this DVD, gets coked up and puts that DVD on again. Fuck’s sake! “So, he goes, like, anybody from Spain?” I’m like, “Aye! Me!” “Rewind it. Watch it again. Everyone, get in the living room! Watch this!” Very funny, Stevie. Very fucking funny, buddy. Spain. I like Spain. I like the cultural side. Siesta. I like that shit. You get to go for a lie down in the afternoon. It’s called a “siesta” in Spain. When you go for a lie down in the afternoon in Scotland, it’s called depression. People start worrying about you if you go for a siesta in this country. “Is the big man all right? Aye? Is he all right?” “Have you spoke to him? Have you tried to talk to him about it?” “It’s a lot of siestas he’s going for.” I like my siesta on holiday. That’s the best bit, innit? I don’t go on mental holidays any more. Don’t go with my mates. I’ve got bomb scare pals that don’t know when to shut the fuck up. It wears thin after a few years, turning up dodgy side streets in a foreign country. People try to sell you shit. You’ve got mates that don’t know when to shut the fuck up and keep walking. Hookers everywhere. “I suck your dick? I suck your dick?” “I’ll suck your dick, hen!” “Well done, Barry boy. That’s us all getting shot, mate! Well done!” I like the bit when you’re getting fuck all done. The bit between six o’clock and before you need to go out for the night. You’ve done the pool during the day. You’re in. That’s it. The siesta. Lying on the sofa bed in the apartment with prickly heat. Watching The Simpsons in Spanish. Eating the local crisps. Listening to how much of a fucking fruitcake Homer sounds in Spanish. “I’ll go in the shower in a minute. I think Homer’s gonna slit somebody’s throat here.” They’re nice, their crisps. Here, get some of their crisps. Ruffles “jamon” flavour.

I went on a cultural break. Tried that. Done New York, all that stuff. You get dragged round tourist attractions. A lot more pressure on yourself to actually go and do shit. Looking at stuff, knowing you should be enjoying it. Statue Of Liberty. “Wow! That’s exactly how I fucking thought it would look.” Having to take your photograph. You don’t realise how much shite you photograph until you go somewhere good. Or your phone runs out of memory. Standing on top of the Empire State Building, deleting fry-ups. I’ve got an app called What’sApp. Right, all the kids have got it. People send you… People send you pictures and videos and it just saves straight to your phone. It’s horrific shit people send. And I never knew I had a video of a guy fucking a hoover on my phone… ..until I was showing my mother my holiday photographs. I’m flicking through them, giving my wee commentary. “That was us on the first night. That’s a view from the hotel, Mum. That was a wee Italian restaurant. That’s where Harry met Sally. The pastrami sandwich was nae very nice. That’s a guy… Cracking holiday, Mum. I’d definitely recommend…” Of course you watch it. If a guy has took the time to fuck a hoover, I will take the time to watch a guy fuck a hoover. Lying, watching it. Have you ever seen your own reflection on your phone? You see how tragic you look at these moments. Lying on your couch. Big double chin. Fucking dead behind the eyes. Your life is ending just watching a guy fuck a hoover. Is that a Henry or a Henrietta he’s fucked now? And you need to reply to your mate that sent it. H-A. H-A. H-A. H-A. H-A. H-A. And then the emoticons. There’s that wee guy that fucking cries with laughter. 15 of them, mate. Projectile tears of laughter are leaving my eyes, mate. There we go. Ha-ha-ha!

I was at New York, getting dragged into museums. Trying so hard to enjoy it. There’s that voice in there going, “Shite. Shite. Shite. Shite. Shite.” Trying so hard. “It’s not shite, Kevin. Show some respect.” “It’s fucking shite. It’s an art gallery full of shite. “Shite. Shite. Shite. Shite. Shite. Shite. Shite.” Listening to the tour guide. “This is 300 years old. This was donated to the museum.” I thought, “Shite. Shite. Shite. Shite.” “And you’re fortunate the Tutankhamun exhibit is here for six weeks only.” Trust me to land that fucking six weeks, eh? How shite will that be? Tutankhamun, the King of Egypt at 21. I bet he was a wee wank. Shite. Shite. Shite. Shite. Shite. Shite. Shite. Come on, Kevin, you’re better than this. Let’s see a show of strength. “Excuse me, mate. Is that a Diego Rivera?” “You don’t know who he is?” You’ve found a victim, Kev. All that hard work. Give him it. Both barrels. “Never heard of Diego Rivera, mate? Never seen Dreams Of A Sunday Afternoon In The Alameda? Arguably one of Rivera’s most controversial works, my man. Why was it controversial? Well, because it depicted Don Ignacio Ramírez holding a placard that said, “God does not exist.” The work caused uproar, but Rivera refused to remove the placard until nine years later, stating that he doesn’t have to hide behind Don Ignatio Ramírez to show his own atheist views and that he believes all religions are a form of collective neurosis.” “You don’t know this shit?” Job done, Kev. Now get to the gift shop. Buy a rubber and fuck off.

I travel. I travel a lot. I appreciate my life. Travel. Stay in a lot of hotels. They’ve always got bad news for you, I notice, in hotels. “Unfortunately, sir, the Wi-Fi is only available in the lobby area.” “Well, is it all right to masturbate in the lobby area?” That’s what I say to them. Call them out on it. “I might use your Wi-Fi and your lobby, then, mate. The websites I visit, that is between me and my browsing cookies. Your manager can deal with the inevitable negative reviews on TripAdvisor.” Some stunned couple. “Don’t get me wrong. The rooms were spacious. The location was great. The staff were a delight. Could not fault the food or the facilities. But, on the final night, there was a Scottish bloke ripping the head off it in the lobby. It was bloody disgusting. Nothing subtle about it. He had his denims at his ankles. His feet on the coffee table. He was using both his hands at one point. He was shouting encouragement to himself. He then demanded housekeeping bring him a hoover. It was rather bizarre. Two stars. We won’t be back. Two stars.”

The Wi-Fi is fucking killing this world, innit? The Internet? I’m trying to cut loose. I’m trying to cut… I’m trying to stay off it. Driving me fucking nuts. I like technology. I appreciate what the geeks have done for this world. I just don’t like the person that I become as soon as it fails. As soon as it stops working, it sends me fucking into a big, angry primate. I’ve had too many of these rages. I’m quite a peaceful guy. Fucking laptop stopped searching for wireless networks a few weeks ago. That sounds trivial, but that’s enough to send me into a… “Fucking piece of shit!” Fucking shouting at it, cos I’m so out of my depth trying to figure out… Your laptop breaks. You’ve got two options, Johnny. You can hand it to where you bought it, or you can phone up the technical support line. What option would you choose, Johnny? In your own time, Johnny. Well, I phoned up, Johnny. You could hand it in. That’s part of my problem. I’m not wanting to hand this computer into the Apple Store to speak to Marc with a C. With his “Wee genius” T-shirt on. Talking about his band. “Yeah, we’re called Skull Fracture. We’re playing the unsigned tent at T in the Park.” His big, stupid earlobes hanging down. Go on and put your ear rings back in, Marc. Stop putting people off calamari for life. Fucking disgusting.

I decided to phone up. The laptop was no longer searching for wireless networks. People are calling it a First World problem. That just makes you angrier. I fucking know it’s a First World problem! That’s why I’m on the phone to the Third World, trying to get it fucking fixed. – Woo! – I phoned up. I’m on the phone. Indonesia. Talking to my man. My man Gavin. He starts asking me questions. I’m telling Gav the issue. Gav’s asking me for my DHCP client ID. I said, “I don’t know what that means, Gav.” Gav told me to click on System Preferences. Then go to Network Settings. And then Advanced Network Settings. He said, in there, you should see an IPV and phone number. From that, you should be able to see your DHCP client ID. I’m fucking getting excited here. Gav’s onto something. I said, “Yes, Gav. I can see a DHCP client ID.” And he’s asking me if it’s configurated or deconfigurated. I said, “Well, Gav, it appears to be deconfigurated.” Gav tells me to click on. I’m already there, Gav. Clicked on Configurated. Done deal. And he goes, “Try again.” I’m so fucking excited, Gav, to try again. I tried again and the laptop connected to the wireless network. I thanked Gav for his time. Then I’m left wondering… My mind is blown. Who the fuck undone that? Like…? I have never been anywhere near that part of the computer before. So what the fuck happened between connecting to wireless networks and not connecting? Did that have an MIT frat party in the living room one night? Did that have Mark Zuckerberg and the boys round for a couple of cans? It’s got a bit out of hand. I fell asleep at six in the morning. And, rather than just shave off my eyebrows, or draw a cock and balls on my face, some prankster has logged into my laptop and fucking deconfigurated my DHCP client ID.

We are raising kids in this world… I’m only 28. I still remember the world being a bit simpler. It’s tragic when you hear the children going, “Dad! Dad! Dad, this iPod’s not performing the software update! Dad!” And if I ever become a father, I don’t know if I could handle that. I think I’ll be saying, “Shut the fuck up, you wee tool! Performing a software update? You’re a wee guy. Go up to the loft. Find a golf club. Go outside and chop some jaggy nettles. Go outside! Outside! Go out there! Go and chop some jaggies. You’re a wee guy! You’ve your whole life to perform software updates. Go out there and be bored. Decapitate a few dandelions. Get in the bushes!” “I’ve just been stung by a nettle!” “Well, get a fucking dock leaf, then. Learn some survival tactics. How about a big walk? Just kick a plastic bottle down the street. Be at one with your thoughts. Get a big stick. Get a bit of dog shite on the end. Patrol your bit! Fucking armed with a bit of dog shite on a stick. It’s a rite of passage to any child. Sitting up in your bedroom, getting cyber bullied. Fucking go to his door with a bit of dog shite on a stick.”

We need to be bored. Our minds are too occupied. I used to be bored as a child. I was quite a creative wee guy. I was that fucking… I tried to start a boy band. I had mental ideas. In my jotter, “Element Four.” That’s what I called us. I had three mates who I gave aliases to. Air, Fire, Rain, Wind. I told them about my plans. They laughed at me. Called me, “Gay boy!” I thought, “Fuck youse!” I went solo. Big Wind. Going down to the kitchen, grabbing the radio. Up to the bedroom. Blank cassette in. Pressing… Pressing play and record at the same time. With my lyrics that I’d wrote. Big Wind in the studio.

♪ Baby, I’ve been thinking ♪ About you ♪ I think you’re thinking about me too Making sure my Dad’s not there, in case I get fucking leathered. ♪ When you said goodbye ♪ It made me cry, baby-y-y-y Doing the voice that long, your eyes start to water. Really adds a bit to it. ♪ Baby-y-y-y-y Cos

I was fucking bored. I enjoyed childhood. Going out on a big walk. Just showing up at your mate’s door. Going in for your mate. Going in for somebody. Just battering their letterbox, unannounced. “All right, Mrs Cassidy. Is Stu in? I’m here to eat every crisp in this house.” “His name’s Stuart, Kevin.” “Where is he? Stoobster!” That’s when you discovered the love you had for your own family. I see the wee dweebs go, “I actually hate my mum and dad.” Fucking get out the house, then! A sleepover. That’s when you discovered how much you loved your own mum and dad. When you went an spent an evening in another family. That was an eye-opener. We need that. The kids are too busy online and they’re socialising to this level. You need to go and spend time in another house. Discover. You’ve got it good. That Saturday morning, returning home to your own house, after a sleepover. Just want to cuddle your mum and dad. As if you’ve just served in Afghanistan. “Mum, come here. Dad, bring it in, big guy! I know I don’t tell you a lot, but I love you. The Cassidys are fucking weirdoes.”

Cos it would start off all right. You’d go in for Stu. And you’re up in the bedroom, playing the computer. He’s making you use an unofficial control pad that his gran bought him for Christmas. You’re letting it slide, even though it’s frustrating. You’re through on goal, trying to shoot. “Where’s the square button, Stu? Stu?” “It’s not square, it’s No.9 on that pad.” “Fucking piece of shit! Fuck you, Stu! Fuck you!” And his mum comes into the bedroom. “Kevin, we’re gonna phone a Chinese. Would you like to stay for some Chinese?” Fucking jackpot! “Of course. Of course I’ll stay for some Chinese.” You start to relax. I like this family. I reckon I could be a Cassidy. Everything’s going to plan. Friday night, home delivery. Then you get shouted down the stairs. Made to set the table. They’re setting the table for a home delivery. Again, letting it slide. This is the Cassidys’. It’s not fucking Christmas Day, but maybe they set their table for a home delivery. Then the food arrives. You don’t recognise one fucking thing that they’ve ordered. Not once was I consulted during the ordering process. I know I’m ten. I know I’m a guest, but ordering a home delivery is a democratic process. But again, letting it slide. The dad’s shown you the food. “OK, Kevin, this is the king scallop, Sichuan-style. This is the Kung Pao lamb. This is the sweet and chilli bean curd.” “This is nae Chinese food, Mr Cassidy. Where’s all the yellow shit? Where’s all the chicken balls? Chips? Curry sauce? You’d get fucking laughed out of China for that shite, Mr Cassidy.” Then he starts saying grace. The dad, thanking the Lord for a home delivery! Just fucking tip the delivery driver. Job done. You’re trying to plate yourself up some food. You’re going, “Mr Cassidy, where’s the rice?” “Oh, just give us a few minutes on the rice, Kevin. It shouldn’t be long.” “Oh, they never sent the rice? I hate when that happens, Mr Cassidy.” “Oh, no, no, no. Sheila’s just boiling the rice.” “Oh, they sent it not boiled, Mr Cassidy?” “No, Kevin, they never sent anything. We don’t order rice from the Chinese. Why would we pay £2 for rice when there’s a whole jar of rice on the worktop there? That would just be stupid, wouldn’t it?” Alarm bells are ringing. We’re having fucking house rice! With a home delivery? On a Friday night? We’re having it with house rice? The evening’s took a sinister turn. Glaring across the table at wee Stu. I’m gonna fucking expose you! This is going to finish you, Stu, in school on Monday. This will be your nickname for eternity. It’ll be House Rice. Even if you’re driving a Ferrari. “Oh, he’s driving a Ferrari, is he?” “Who?” “House Rice!”

Finished the food. Seen the family. I don’t know if I could be a Cassidy. Then you get made to wash the dishes. “Kevin, why don’t you make a little game of it? Stuart can wash them. You can dry them.” Fucking great game, Mrs Cassidy. Non-stop scream in this house on a Friday night. Maybe we can change ends at half-time, or is that a bit too out there? Then the gran arrives. You get dragged into the living room. “Yeah, we always watch a movie together as a family, Kevin. It’s just our little Friday night thing. Coming in? We’re going to watch The Hand That Rocks The Cradle. Have you seen it, Kevin?” No, Mrs Cassidy but I heard it’s fantastic, heard it’s hilarious. Having to sit watching this. How the fuck do I get out of here? I need to get home. I need home, home. I’m homesick. I’m only four streets away. I’m fucking homesick. “Kevin, just phone your dad and see if you can stay overnight. That would be nice. Have a wee sleepover.” Imagine that, Kev. The overnight package with these freaks. “Kevin, phone your dad.” This is before mobile phones. You had to use the living room phone. The whole family is sitting there. “Phone your dad, Kevin, phone your dad.” The Hand That Rocks The Cradle’s been paused, they’re all listening in. “Ask if you can stay.” You’re on the phone to your dad, solely dependent on your tone to get across to your dad that you’re being held against your will. This is going to take an acting performance, Kev. This is nae a family, this is a cult. “Phone your dad, Kevin.” Trying to get a bit of a lump in the throat. Hoping my dad hears I’m crying, comes and rescues me. “Where are you, Kevin? I’ll come and fucking do them. Where are you, where are you?” It’s ringing, it’s ringing. Hi, Dad? Dad. Dad, is it all right if I stay overnight at Stuart Cassidy’s house? “Of course it is, Kevin, you have a great night.” Your dad’s no fucking getting it at all. Dad, are you sure I’ve got no plans in the morning? I thought I had. You know, I had something on. “Nothing on in the morning, Kevin. It’s Saturday and you’re fucking ten years old, pal. No plans.”

That was that, you’d signed up. You were one of them for the evening. “Kevin, un-pause the movie.” I think it’s you that’s got the doofer, Mr Cassidy. “It’s me that’s got the what? The doofer? Is that what you call the remote control, the doofer?” He’s fucking laughing. The ma’s laughing, the whole family, wee House Rice is laughing. They’re all laughing at you. They’re ripping the piss out of you, Kev. “The doofer!” Fucking hook the dad, Kev, hook the dad. Take the whole family out. One jab to the dad. No family recovers from a jab to the dad. “The doofer!” Fucking knock him out, Kev. I’m nudging wee Stu. Want to go up to the bedroom. Want to go up, House Rice, want to go to bed. The dad catches you. “You trying to get Stuart to go to bed with you? Is there something you’re not telling us?” You’re on thin ice, Mr Cassidy, you old bastard.

Eventually, up to the bedroom. Wee House Rice just goes to sleep straightaway. You’re left alone, on his floorboards, inside a Scooby Doo sleeping bag. You haven’t even got a pillow, you’ve got a cushion off the couch, with the zip on your neck, haven’t you? Turn it… Alone, breathing in their family smell, their house smell. The whole family smell the same. I recognise that smell. That’s the way he smells when I sit beside him in school. I wonder if he stunk out the house or the house stunk him out. Wonder what came first. Listening to these noises. How fucking loud is your bedroom clock, House Rice? Ticking away ever second. It is torture. I need out of here. I wonder what time I can leave here. Do you think five in the morning’s a bit early? That’s the target, Kev, five in the morning. Anybody catches you trying to leave – “Are you not going to stay for breakfast, Kevin?” Wonder what you get for breakfast in this shit-hole, wonder. “What would you like for your breakfast, Kevin?” Maybe some eggy bread. “Eggy bread, is that what you call French toast?” All that shite starts again. All the fucking House Rices laughing at you. “You’re not going to stay, Kevin? We’re having Alpen. Do you like Alpen?” Yes, Mrs Cassidy, I love nothing better on a Saturday morning than a big bowl of Alpen. That’s what gets me through the week. Mm! Get something in that frying pan, you fucking boot.

Ladies and gentlemen of Glasgow, thank you for listening. Been a pleasure talking to you. Top crowd. Take care of yourselves. Thank you. Good night. Cheers. Thank you. Thank you. Cheers to you, mate. Cheers to Johnny. Thank you. Good night, take care. Get back. Get fucking back. It’s become a hostage situation, there at the back. Get back. Back. You at the door, back, back, back, back. This is it. You’re supposed to leave that bit much longer when you go off stage but there’s a big flight of stairs there and I just… What’s the point? You go all the way down, you go all the way back up. So, I’m back. Nice crowd, man. You all right? Yes. Can you get what? A selfie. I’m kind of busy the noo, hen, but yes. There you go. There you go. Top crowd. What a venue, man. Wow, I’d love to be a priest up here.

♪ A… A… men ♪ Our Lord the Saviour ♪ Pray for our souls. A… Amen Bit of religion in Glasgow, eh? How could this backfire? ♪ Amen Believe in the Lord, Johnny? Yes, you do. Good, good. Good man. I don’t, man. I don’t know. I grew up a Catholic. Don’t really give a fuck these days, maybe. Maybe go to chapel Christmas Day, Easter Sunday. One of them Catholics that go to the big games. I mean… I’m no’ going to go to the league matches but I’ll go to the cup final. Back to the old priest, talking about Jesus. ♪ When he comes back, when he comes back ♪ The second coming of the Lord, Jesus Christ Coming back? How fucking long have we given the guy, man? 2015! I think it’s fair to say Jesus has fucked off, innit? He’s found new pals, he’s ditched us. The millennium, that was a turning point for a lot of people. Jesus never showed up at his own 2,000th. That’s not your 40th or your 21st, that’s the 2,000th. I picture the guy, Jesus, what he’d be like in his Second Coming. Imagine the ego on that guy. Arguing with night-club bouncers. Do you know who my dad is? Don’t care who your dad is, pal, you’re no’ getting in with sandals on. Bringing religion into football, that backfired. Why don’t you bring religion into football? That’ll bring people back to their place of worship. Get the tunes a bit better.

♪ Give him a loaf, give him a fish ♪

Jesus of Nazareth, he’ll serve up a dish Jesus! Ah, the Yank asked me about the Old Firm before. People exaggerate it a wee bit. Danny Dyer, all those guys. An American, he’s gone, “Man, is it fucking true, man, that if you walk into the wrong fucking bar in Glasgow on soccer day…” Soccer day! Don’t laugh at the guy. Sorry, Duane, continue. He goes, “I heard this one story, man, this guy had the wrong T-shirt on and the other team’s fans walked over and they didn’t beat the shit out of him. Instead, they fucking grabbed him by the ears and sucked on one of his eyeballs… It was like some disrespect, some tribal shit. That fucking go on, man, over a soccer match?” It would fucking break my heart to deny that. I said, yes, Duane, sadly. I have seen many a match marred by such incidents. An Old Firm game, the whole stadium sitting with fucking monocles in. Did they get you, as well, Kenny? I couldnae believe it, mate. Never drinking there again, man. Oh, he’s got contact lenses, the Fenian bastard! Anyway, ladies and gentlemen, it genuinely means a lot to see so many people. 16 nights, very humbling. Thank you, good people, for that. I’d just like to… Thank you. Yes. I done my… I done my first-ever show when I’d just left school, 17. My dad was there. My mum and dad are here. It’s their 40th wedding anniversary. So, lots of love to them.

Thanks for everything. Thank you, Andy. Thanks very much. Good night, Glasgow, take care. Thank you! Cheers. Thank you, good night, cheers.


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