[hip-hop music playing]
[audience cheering and applauding]
[cheering and applauding continue]
Wow. So nice! Oh, wow. Gosh, that’s way… Come on, now. Please. That is… That is so nice. Keep going forever.
Look at this. Here we are. London Palladium. My gosh.
Thank you so much for coming out. Oh, my days. Oh. Let me put this away. The biggest stage in the world so I’ll be back in about half an hour.
Guys, thank you so much for coming out tonight. I really appreciate it. Here we are. It’s taken a few more months longer than expected, but here we are. Look at this, a sold-out, reduced capacity, London Palladium!
[laughing and cheering]
Oh, my gosh. Oh, man. Thank you so much for coming.
So we were meant to film this last year. We were meant to film this in May of 2020. But something came up. We had to push it back. But we made it. Here we are. We’re finally doing it. I can’t wait to do the show. I hope it is all still relevant.
This show is about Brexit and how much I want to meet Prince Philip. Let’s go! Let’s do it! Should be good, should be fun.
I’m Phil Wang, in case you didn’t know. Here I am. Old Philly Philly Wang Wang. Here at last. Old Philly Philly Wang Wang at the London Phalladium.
So good to be here. Phil Wang. Uh, I’m a mixed race fella. As the name “Phil Wang” might suggest. At some point here, a cultural compromise was made. Yes, well, my father is a Chinese Malaysian, hence the “Wang.” And the rest of my body. My father is Chinese Malaysian, uh, but my mother is, uh, normal. So, yeah, got some sour cream in that chili.
Didn’t want you to burn your tongue on that hot Wang, so Mama brought the milk.
White and Chinese, those are my races. White and Chinese. Phil and Wang. White and Chinese. I’m the most powerful race on Earth! I got the big ones, baby! Smoosh them together. I’m white and Chinese. People have tried to tell me that I’m a minority.
I’m like, “I’m both majorities, bitch. I’m white and Chinese.”
[laughing and applauding]
You can’t touch me. I’m Pepsi and Coke. I’m like a full market share. They sell Wang everywhere. I’m white and Chinese. I’m everywhere. You can’t run from me. I’m around every corner. Hello. Ni hao. I’m Alien and Predator. I’m white and Chinese. I’m future-proof, baby. Completely future-proof. No matter what happens over the next 50 years, Wang, or Phil, is fine.
Probably Wang, though.
The way things are going.
It’s weird looking like me at the moment. In the wake of the COVID pandemic, it’s weird looking like me. Uh, Chinese, not muscular. It’s weird looking Chinese at the moment. This whole pandemic, it’s been bad for the brand, to say the least. Honestly, the last thing we needed, especially in the UK. The last thing East Asian Chinese Brits needed. East Asian Brits, East Asians in Britain, very low profile in the UK. So low, in fact, that we don’t even have the word “Asian” here. Most places in the world, we at least have the word “Asian.” Not in the UK. In the UK, the word “Asian,” usually refers to South Asian, right? Indian, Pakistani, Sri Lankan, Bangladeshi. Which is fine. But there’s this whole other half of Asia they’re missing out on. A whole other, I would say, bigger half.
There’s a whole other half of Asia missing out there. There’s two types of Asian in the world. There’s more, but I don’t have that much time. Fundamentally, there are two main categories of Asian in the world. There’s Cricket Asian.
By the sounds of it, you already know who those guys are. You’ve never heard “Cricket Asian” in your life and instantly you knew who I was talking about. So there’s Cricket Asian, and then there’s Eats-Weird-Shit Asian.
Now, I am a member of Eats-Weird-Shit Asian. I’m a proud Eats-Weird-Shit Asian. I eats that weird shit. But it’s kind of awkward being an Eats-Weird-Shit Asian at the moment ’cause that’s how this whole catastrophe started in the first place.
One of us ate one piece of weird shit too far. After centuries of living on the wild side, we pushed our luck and it finally snapped on the wings of a bat. It’s awful. Why now? It’s always been fine up till now. I ate weird shit as a kid. Nothing like this ever happened. Growing up in Malaysia, I was eating weird shit. Loved it. Loved eating weird shit. I would eat, like, uh, squid jerky. [growls] I was eating little wriggly sea snails, straight out of the shell. Mmm. I was eating jellyfish. I was eating pig intestine soup. Uh, we’d eat the whole fish for dinner. Whole fish. My little sister would go, “Shotgun, the eyes!” Me and my other sister would be like, “Naw!”
It’s just a different culture out there. In the West, people are a little squeamish about the more extreme ends of the culinary spectrum. Out in the East, there’s a sense of delicacy to the strange. Nowhere more so than China. China itself. I got to see this firsthand in China recently. Went there for the first time. China. The big C. Asia Classic.
Chinatown Plus. China. At the start of 2020, I got to go to China. Unrelated, it wasn’t me.
Awkward timing, in retrospect, but it wasn’t me. I got to go to China for a job, and while I was out there, I got to go to a food market. Not sounding good, I’ll give you that. I got to go to a food market out there in China. And they were selling all sorts of Chinese snacks. There’s stalls selling noodles, some selling buns, blah, blah, blah. But there was one stall that was dedicated to weird pieces of shit. Critters, essentially. Deep-fried, roasted critters. Bugs. Locusts. There was a lizard, on a stick, just dried like: Crucified lizard, like this. People would walk past and go, “Oh, I’ll have the Jesus lizard, please.” Uh, “One Passion of the Lizard, thank you.”
There were snakes curled up like sausages with a spike through them. I partook, sure! I ate a full tarantula on a stick. Like that. Tried to do it in two halves, surprisingly tough, tarantula. So I had to just down it in one. Like a legend.
I ate a centipede. Good thing about a centipede, plenty of drumsticks for everyone.
I ate a couple of roasted cockroaches. But they’re resilient, cockroaches. Crawled out of my butt. They’re gonna inherit the world.
It’s just a cultural thing. A cultural difference. Like, in the West, you know that nursery rhyme, I know an old lady who swallowed a fly I don’t know why she swallowed a fly Perhaps she’ll die It’s a banger.
And in this nursery rhyme, this old lady goes on to eat increasingly large animals to catch the previous animal she ingested, which she now regrets having inside her. First she swallows a fly, by accident. Then she swallows a spider… I know what that’s like.
…to catch the fly. Then she swallows a bird to catch the spider, then a cat to catch the bird, then a dog to catch the cat, then a horse to catch the dog.
Now, in the West, this nursery rhyme is a cautionary tale…
…about how sometimes the solution can be worse than the problem. In China, this is a Michelin star tasting menu…
…with an admittedly heavy dessert, horse!
Oof. “We’ll just have the one. Two spoons, thank you.”
It’s just a cultural difference. But no reason we should get that there racism because of it. That there COVID racism? I don’t want that there COVID racism, no thank you. I’m terrified of that there COVID racism. I don’t want to get that on me. Terrified. Even at home alone, “Oh!” I hear a noise, I’m like, “Racism?” “Did I leave a window open? Did racism get in?”
Just me and my devices at home, alone… Even my devices I don’t trust. My devices are racist now. My phone especially. I think my phone is definitely racist. I was on my phone the other day, and I typed the word, uh, “Nazis” into my phone, right? You don’t need to know why.
I typed the word “Nazis” into my phone. All lowercase, right, n-a-z-i-s, all lowercase. I was in a hurry. You know what sexting’s like.
You gotta be quick. The vibe’s not gonna last forever. So I typed into my phone, n-a-z-i-s, all lowercase. And then instantly, my phone autocorrected it to replace the “n” at the beginning with a capital “N” as if to say, “Oi! Show some goddamn respect.
Those are Nazis you’re talking about… Phil Wand.”
I got a far-right phone that thinks I’m a creepy magician. Terrible.
Scary times. Not the scariest times we’ve lived through. Not really the most dangerous times we’ve lived through. But it’s the abstract nature of this new danger that has driven us insane. It’s so abstract. It’s an invisible virus. So abstract, some of us don’t even believe it’s real. Threat and danger have become more abstract as the 21st century’s progressed. With it, we’ve been becoming more insane. At the start of this century, threat and danger were very real, physical, tangible things, you know? After 9/11, War on Terror, back then, the threat, the thing that we were all told to look out for was just a guy, covered in bombs… who would come in and go: [yells] “I’m covered in bombs, everyone! I’m covered in bombs and I love it, to be frank!”
We’d see him and go, “Okay, I’ll stay away from that guy.” Problem solved. Clear, tangible threat.
Then threats started getting abstract. The next thing we were all told to look for was unattended packages. Remember unattended packages? I long for the day of the unattended package. We were obsessed with unattended packages for a while. Mid-noughties, golden age of the unattended package. All we cared about back then, unattended packages and Malcolm in the Middle. Now there were just packages out there. There wasn’t even a guy involved. Now there were just packages out there, and it was down to us to assess each one’s level of attendance.
Responsibility had shifted onto the public. We all still had our lives to live, but now we’d been burdened with a new unpaid second job of being bag spotters! We’d try our best, but it was terrifying. We’d go out, living our mid-noughties lives, down the library or the cyber cafe…
…and from time to time, we’d see a backpack just lying on the ground. And we’d freak out! We’d go, [yells] “It’s a package!” “And it’s unattended!” “Quick! Someone attend it!” Then someone would run over, [panting] we’d be like, “Phew. That was close.”
But then threat got more abstract still. Then with the Internet, as life moved online, the thing we were told to look out for were bots and hackers and Russians. Then we found out none of them could tick a box that says “I’m not a robot.” That seemed to solve the problem.
Now with the coronavirus, threat is the most abstract it’s ever been. Now threat is like a surface.
“Be careful of a surface, everyone.” “No, you should be fine, as long as you steer clear of them surfaces. They’ll get you.” Awful to find out, home alone, watching the news. “Oh, shit, surfaces!” I did a quick scan of my flat. Fucking surfaces everywhere! Death trap, that place! Didn’t realize I was living in Saw III.
Even now I’m terrified. My friends are like, “Wanna come over, have dinner in the garden?” I’m like, “Uh, maybe. Could you check quickly… Do you have any surfaces over there?
What are we having dinner on? A table? Are you trying to kill me? You’re out of the bubble, buddy.”
Scary times, man. I’m getting more scared. Getting older. Maybe you get more fearful as you age. Getting older. That’s scary itself, getting older. Holy shit, I thought I’d at least have this year off. No. Older again. So fucking old now, man. I became so old this year. Don’t know about you guys, but I became older recently. Became so old this year. Broke my personal record, actually. Became so old. I turned 31 this year. Bleh!
I know. Disgusting. Yes, you’re right. I’m gonna be sick. Bleh! So old. Thirty-freaking-one. I went into lockdown 19 years old. Now I’m 31. Terrible.
Awful. So fucking old. Thirty-one. This shit’s nearly over, folks. This is my farewell special, by the way. Oh, my God. Knockin’ on hell’s door over here. I’m 31. I’m so old. Uh, this may annoy some people.
I come onstage and I say, “I’m 31, I’m so old.” There’s always a couple of people in the crowd, like, “Oh, 31’s not old. Oh, shut up, 31’s nothing. You’re a baby. Turning 31. Pfft. Give me a break!” But they’re always really fucking old, so…
Doesn’t make me feel better.
They’re like 43 and shit. I don’t care.
Forgive me if I take no comfort from the jealous face of death itself. Mr. Magoo and Maggie Smith think I’m a spring chicken. Oh, great.
I know 31’s not, like, “old” old. But it’s not “young” young anymore either. It doesn’t fizz with the excitement of the twenties. Thirty-one’s a pretty serious age. One of the first serious ages. Life starts to ossify at 31. Shit starts to get serious. People start committing to things long-term. I’ve got to that age now where all my friends have started having, uh, podcasts.
So I had to have one too, to keep up with the crowd. But I wasn’t ready.
My body’s falling apart. Body’s giving up the fucking ghost, man. Crumbling into a disgusting paste, this body. Awful. Gets worse and worse every day. Every morning I wake up to a new leak on this ship.
It doesn’t even make sense anymore, the shit that goes wrong with my body. It used to make sense. Back in the day, I’d stub my toe, then my toe would hurt. It was a clear line of cause and effect.
Now, my body skips the first step. Just straight to pain, unexplained. I just go, “Oh, why?” And my body’s like, “Fuck you, that’s why.”
It’s improvising now, my body. It’s gone full jazz. Doesn’t have to make sense at all. Like, the other day I woke up, and one of my balls hurt. It just hurt. I didn’t do anything to it. I didn’t deserve that. I didn’t go to bed the night before like: [sighs, then grunts] Now I’m relaxed. I didn’t do that. But still, just one painful ball in the morning. Just exhausted by a long night’s sleep, I guess.
That’s where I’m at now. Tired by rest.
I’ve got a bad back. Thirty-one, back’s a-crackin’. My memory’s not what it used to be. Or maybe it is. I have no way of knowing.
Maybe it’s the same and I forgot.
My farts are disgusting now. My farts are so bad. I thought my farts were bad before. Pfft. Ha! If only young Wang knew…
♪ What fragrant days he lived in ♪
♪ I should have savored them While I had the chance ♪
Now my farts are revolting.
Absolutely disgusting, my farts now. They’re quieter now, I’ll give them that. My farts are quieter now. But they’re worse. For you.
My young farts were loud and ostentatious. But, ultimately, kind on the nose. They weren’t interested in hurting anyone, my young farts. They were in it for the show, really, my young farts. They were like fireworks, my young farts.
Then Chinese people would come. “Yeah.
Good luck. Good luck for the coming year.”
Now my farts are like the silent leaking of an abandoned chemical factory. Just slowly poisoning the groundwater.
Killing the local dogs. It’s terrible. Terrible, my farts are. They’re absolutely disgusting, so bad.
Have you ever done a fart so bad that you, uh, lost a bar of Wi-Fi?
I swear the other day… Swear to God, I was at home and I let one rip and [blows raspberry] Netflix got blurry for a bit. You know when it’s like, it gets the squares. “Come on!”
Body’s changing, I guess. Body’s changing. Thirty-one, my body’s changing. My mind’s changing. My soul’s changing. My personality’s changed a lot. My opinions. My political persuasion’s changed. So much from a couple years ago. I used to think I was a Socialist. That was me. Just a couple of years ago. Little Philly Philly Wang Wang with his red cap on.
“Mm! I’m a Socialist. Boo-boo-boo. A little bit for everyone. It only seems fair.
Boo-boo-boo. Nationalize the sea. Oh, I’m a Socialist.”
But looking back now, I realize I just didn’t have money.
I have money now. I’m not sharing that shit! That’s mine! Back off, you dirty Commies!
Wang made that pound.
Turns out capitalism’s okay when you got, uh, capital.
The clue was in the name the whole time.
I just want to be rich now. I used to want world peace and now I just want to be fucking minted.
And I know that’s not a very meaningful pursuit, money for its own sake. But honesty is a meaningful pursuit. And if I’m being honest, I just want to be loaded. I just wanna be rich. I mean, I’m already rich. We’re all rich, technically speaking. By global standards, everyone in this room is fucking Bezos. Everyone in this room is Nebuchadnezzar by global standards. I don’t give a shit about global standards. Have you been to the globe?
The globe is filthy. We don’t live in the globe. We live in the UK. On the edge of the world, looking in, tutting. I don’t wanna be globe-rich. That’s like 10 pounds. I don’t wanna be globe-rich. I wanna be proper rich. I want to be UK rich. And not just for the big, obvious things. Not the cars, houses, killing people and getting away with it.
That’s all lovely, sure. But it’s the little things that I want to be rich for. The little touches that make being rich wonderful. Like, I wanna send a bottle of champagne across a restaurant to an acquaintance who hasn’t noticed I’m there yet.
That’s some sweet rich-person-only shit. I’ve seen that in the films and Wang wants in. They’re over there, all sad on their own, eating their fish, and they ain’t got no champagne. Out of nowhere, the waiter pops up. “Oh, this is from the gentleman over there in the rabbit onesie.”
I’m rich! I can wear what I like! You’ve not seen opulence till you’ve seen a full-grown man doff an ear…
…across a crowded Bella Italia.
Mm. Mwah! Ooh, la, la. It’d certainly impress my date.
I’m back on the dating scene now.
Single once more. Ah, yes.
Single fella, single now. Broke up with my girlfriend. Great way to become single. Highly effective, it turns out. So once more, dating. Dating too much, man. Dating way too much. Dating too much. Dating far too much. Chasing my tail with all the dating. Running in this mirage of happiness that keeps receding further into the horizon. I’m trying to make up for something with all this dating. I’m trying to make up for what I perceive to have been a rather, uh, sexless youth. You know? I mean, not childhood. Probably for the best, whatever.
But later. Like late teens, early twenties. That time in your life when you’re supposed to get it out of your system. Just get on your knees, batten down the hatches and just fuckin’…
Just experiment! Fucking yeah! Just fuck your way to clarity.
Move on, get a job, buy a sensible hatchback.
I never did that. I never made the most of those opportunities. University, the big one. I didn’t really have sex at university. Uh, for religious reasons. Uh, God hates me.
I’ve been trying to make up for it. I’ve been trying to pay back this sexual deficit I feel I incurred. This sexual debt upon which I have imposed my own rate of interest that I cannot keep up with. Deep in with the Wang Bank over here.
Sure, the occasional repayment is fun enough, but it’s not a tenable way to live.
I’m on the old dating apps too. On the old apps. Gotta get on the apps. That can be a depressing venture. I discovered pits of desperation I did not know I was low enough to crawl into, on the dating apps.
Like, have you ever swiped right on a group photo…
…not knowing which one of them it is, just, “Yeah, any of them. Yeah, whatever. I’ll date anyone who can afford that ski trip.”
There’s a Labrador in there. “I’ll take the dog, whatever. He’s got a healthy coat.”
Beggars can’t be choosers, I suppose, and East Asian guys, we have a difficult time on the dating apps. This is a documented phenomenon. East Asian men have the hardest time on dating apps of any group. In the West. I think in, like, Korea, they’re fine.
But in the West, East Asian men, Chinese men, we’re rarely considered viable, sexual options. It’s not how we’re portrayed in public culture, in media. We’re never really the sexy guys. Usually we’re portrayed as these sort of gormless, bucktooth fools who are primarily asexual. Like, completely uninterested in sex. Which is mad, considering how many Chinese people there are.
1.4 billion people, that’s with the one-child policy. We fuck so good they had to give us a rule.
[applauding and whooping]
No one else got a rule.
But still, you know, these negative perceptions persist. But I understand. I’m not angry about it. A culture’s aesthetic tastes, its beauty standards, are a difficult thing to shift, informed by many things. What a society finds beautiful is informed by its own cultural makeup, it’s informed by its literature, its language and its poetry. And sometimes I think the English language just isn’t equipped to fully appreciate East Asian male beauty.
For example, we have very dark eyes, right? East Asian guys have very dark eyes. Some of us have very dark eyes. Some of us have black eyes. Coal-black eyes of a snake.
I don’t know if you’ve tried, but it’s very difficult to be romantic, in English, at least, about black eyes. If you have blue eyes, green eyes, good for you, that shit’s easy.
“Oh, you have green eyes! Like the purest emerald. Oh! Oh, you have blue eyes. When I look in your eyes, it’s like I’m swimming in the ocean. Oh!” Whatever.
Black eyes. What can you say about black eyes? “Oh, you have black eyes. They remind me of death.
They are like the endless abyss. When I look in your eyes, it’s like I’m closing my eyes.”
Still, I guess I do all right. Um… I’ve dated some lovely ladies. Got no kids to show for it, as a bonus. No kids. No-child policy over here.
I don’t have any kids. My ex, she was on the old contraceptives. Yeah, a couple of fans in? Big fan of the contraceptives. Grateful to my ex for being on contraceptives. Grateful to all you ladies, for being on the old contraceptives.
Thank you very much, yes. On behalf of the fellas, cheers.
Appreciate it. You’ve been taking one for the team for a while. Not gone unnoticed.
You’re doing great work. Keep it up. And it’s not fair that you ladies have to do most of it still. ‘Cause it’s not like male equivalents haven’t been developed. They have! We just haven’t told ya.
We’re sneaky like that, us guys. It’s why you love us. They have. They made a male pill a couple years ago. They came up with a contraceptive pill for men. But the test subjects found that it actually sort of altered their body chemistry. Made them feel a bit sad.
So they all went… “Hm… Must not be ready yet.
Women can keep using their pill, which we presume is perfect by now.”
A mechanical solution was developed for the guys. A little cork device that they just… Right there. Right there. The equivalent of the coil. Right there. Cork and the Coil. There’s a kids book. Right there. Just a little cork they put right there. Brute force approach, it worked. Right there. A little cork they put up there in the tube. It’ll just sit up there and stop the swimmers getting through. Just like a hard border. Right there. Just like putting a difficult immigrations officer up inside.
“These passports are expired!” They’ll have to swim back and: “Aw…”
I do quite a good sperm impression. I don’t know why. I’m half sperm. Yeah.
Uh, dad’s side, if you’re wondering.
But again, men found that procedure a little invasive, so… They went, “Uh, women can keep using the implant for now.”
It’s not fair. It’s not fair, ladies. I appreciate that, and, men, we should help. We should help carry that burden. Share the load. Pardon the pun.
But there’s an intractable problem with male contraception. Which no one in the industry seems to be talking about. An intractable problem with male contraception, which is that, even if a guy were to get these things done to him, with the best of intentions, what woman is going to believe him?
Right? There’s a lot of trust that goes with unseen contraception. A lot of jeopardy. None of the jeopardy falls on the man’s side. You know? A lady gets pregnant, she deals with it. The guy, he can just fuck off. I mean, you shouldn’t.
You shouldn’t, fellas. You shouldn’t. But you totally can. But you shouldn’t!
You mustn’t… Don’t! But it’s very easy. But you shouldn’t! But you must refrain. But flights are so cheap now. But you shouldn’t!
You can get the Belgian passport on the dark web. Know that? Full Belgian passport.
Different name, new address. But you shouldn’t! But the option’s always open to you.
If you’re a lady, you gotta deal with that shit. The guy, you don’t really. Which is why we don’t need convincing a lady’s sorted out with contraceptives. You can make shit up, ladies. Have fun with it. Could be like, “Oh, yeah, a magical squirrel put a curse on me once, and, uh, now I cannot bear child.”
And even a smart guy would be like, “Yeah, I think I read that. Yeah, sure. Let’s do it.”
It doesn’t work the other way around. Say all these male contraceptives come on the market. I go down to the clinic. Get tooled up. And I go out on the town. Take it for a spin.
Then I go to a bar, chat up a girl. She’s into it for some reason. Maybe she’s sick.
We go back to my place. We start kissing. Sure, why not? It’s 2021, keep up. We start kissing. We get a little bit less-than-clothed. A little nakey-nu, as they say in France. And… just before we get down and dirty, she goes, “Ooh, you have any protection?” And I just go, “Don’t worry, baby. Wang’s on the pill.
Who, me? I got a cork in my balls! I know you’ve never heard of it, but trust me! The man you met at All Bar One.
I got a cork in my balls! Put ’em in the sink. They’ll float, you’ll see.”
That’d never work. I need a doctor’s note from the UN for that shit! I’d need Malala to sign it. “He’s got a cork in his balls. I am Malala.”
I’d love a cork in my balls. You kiddin’? Oh! I’d love a cork in my balls! London Palladium, if you take nothing else from this show… And you won’t.
…please remember Phil would love a cork in his balls! Can you imagine the peace of mind that must come with having a cork in your balls?
Oh! I’d just swan about town, making love, not a care in the world with a cork in my balls. When I do meet the one and want to settle down, I just pop that shit like champagne.
Across a crowded Bella Italia.
[laughing and applauding]
Love a… I’d love a cork in my balls. I’d love a cork in my balls. I would absolutely love a cork in my balls.
I wouldn’t want the pill. I don’t want to be on the male pill.
I don’t want another thing to remember to do.
I got enough shit in my routine. That’s the most impressive one, the pill.
I’m in so much admiration for women on the pill.
That’s the most badass one. It requires the most of you.
The discipline. The determination.
The strength of character.
The memory, just the memory!
You have to remember to do it every day. It’s gotta be hard.
No matter what, you gotta remember every day.
It’s gotta be difficult. Especially if you’re not getting any at the time.
Brief moment of candor, ladies,
but that’s gotta be a kick to the old soul there…
if you’re a sister going through a dry patch…
and you still gotta pop the old sex pill every day.
That’s a bit of a taunt, isn’t it?
Every day. Think of what that is. If you’re not having sex at the time,
being on the contraceptive pill, that is a daily,
of your own squandered sexual potential.
Every day just a gulp of loneliness with breakfast.
[groans] Every day.
Only women are emotionally strong enough to persist with something like that.
Can you imagine if guys had to do anything like that?
We wouldn’t last a week!
Can you imagine if guys had to get up every morning, just crawl out of bed,
and just strap on a condom every morning?
Just like… [whimpers]
Just rolls it up his flaccid penis.
Pulls up his trousers and goes to work with his condom on.
It rides down all day like a tube top. He’s gotta keep pulling…
Distracts him at work. [groans]
“Andy, are you all right?” “Sorry, it’s just…”
“You’re fired.” “Oh, no.”
He goes out clubbing that night. “Yeah. Oh, no.”
Tries to chat up a girl. “You look nice.”
“Ew, gross. Fuck off.”
He has to go home alone.
Up to his bedroom.
He just peels off this dry condom.
Staples it to that day on the calendar.
Just think about the story you applauded.
I’d love a cork in my balls.
I’d love a cork in my balls.
It doesn’t make sense for ladies to do it still.
In the 21st century, it makes no sense. It used to. Back in the day.
Back when we were nomads roaming the plains.
You remember those times.
It made sense. Back then, duties of the sexes were clearly delineated.
Back then, the lady, she took on full reproductive responsibility
’cause the guy, he’d taken on full survival responsibility. Right?
He goes out there, you know, fighting off rival tribes and gathering meat.
But now anyone can buy a fuckin’ Subway, you know. Who cares?
Doesn’t matter who does what anymore. But back in the day, it did matter.
Back then if a lady got pregnant, that was a full-time job.
‘Cause it takes it out of you, being preggers on the savanna.
It’s brutal, the human pregnancy. Uniquely brutal in the animal kingdom.
For a species our size, it takes a long time.
It leaves a woman physically incapacitated.
We’re an upright animal, which is weird already,
and now, she can’t bend over to pick up any rocks
to throw at a saber-tooth.
So she has to keep her fella sweet so he’ll hang around and protect her.
“Hey, baby, this mammoth giving you trouble?”
Fight off the triceratops. My history’s not great.
She’s walking around, pregnant. For nine months!
A sitting duck for nine months! Then she gives birth to that thing.
It’s not over yet, lady! Now she’s gotta pick it up and hold it!
For, like, two years.
That’s her arms gone now.
She can’t even uppercut the pterodactyls anymore.
She’s gotta hold this fuckin’ useless baby all the time!
‘Cause they’re useless, human babies. Fucking useless…
Fucking useless, human babies. Sorry.
Absolutely useless, human babies.
A moment away from death at all times. Can’t survive on their own at all.
The second they’re born, with their big, bowling ball heads
balanced precariously on their toothpick necks.
Every time you pick one up, they’re like, “Try not to kill me!”
That’s why we came up with morality in the first place.
You know, humans, we had to invent this thing called kindness
so we didn’t boot our babies into the bush and move on!
‘Cause they’re liabilities!
Other animals don’t need morality.
Other animals’ babies are instant survival experts. You know?
Like a baby elephant. You seen one? That thing just falls out of its mum.
Then it just gets up and just starts walking.
Like it’s catching up with a pub crawl, “Oh, shit, sorry, everyone. It’s fine.
No, it’s fine. Sorry.
I thought I left my phone, but I got it.”
I’d love a cork in my balls.
I’d love a cork in my balls. Because, ladies, I am an ally.
Just kidding. That was a test, you failed.
Never trust a man who says that.
Yes. That was a test and you passed.
Never trust a man that says that. He’s probably lying!
Just because a person claims to be something,
does not mean they are that particular something.
And you can take that from me.
Miss Nigeria 2015.
Hard to be an ally now. Everyone’s got to be a very good person.
It’s hard. I’ve realized I’m not a good person.
I’m not a good person. I’m not a bad person,
but I’m not selfless enough to be a good person. You know?
Over the course of this pandemic, we’ve seen what it takes to be good.
You gotta give shit up to look after others. I won’t do that.
I’m not a good person. I’m not a bad person, before you worry.
I’m not a bad person. I’m in between.
Like, for example, I once accidentally sat on a cat.
It was an accident!
But I didn’t get up straight away. You know, that’s…
That’s where I am on the spectrum.
I knew it was wrong, but I took my time.
But I’m decent, you know. I’m a decent guy.
I wouldn’t go out of my way to hurt anyone,
but I wouldn’t go out of my way to help them either.
I just wouldn’t go out of my way.
That’s my moral code. If you’re falling over, I’ll catch you,
but you need to be falling onto me, pretty much.
Got a bad back. Can’t be running around catching fools.
It’s okay to be decent. Especially if you’re a guy.
We’ve made it pretty easy for ourselves.
We’ve spent centuries, us guys, lowering the moral bar for ourselves
so all that’s required for us to be one of the good ones is to not be bad.
It’s harder for women. Women are held to a higher ethical standard.
I think the word “decent” illustrates this clearly.
If you’re a decent guy, that’s a compliment.
Notice that? “You gotta meet my friend Paul. He’s a decent guy.”
“Shit! Let’s get a drink with Paul now!
Every second without Paul is a living nightmare!
Where are you, Paul?!”
There just seems to be more weight to the word “decent” if it’s a man.
Like, if you went to a man’s funeral,
you know, and the priest said,
“Alan was a decent man.”
You’d be like, “[gasps] Oh, no!
Alan sounded like a great guy!
Aw, I should’ve hung out more with Alan!
Now I’ve missed out on all that sweet Alan time.
Rest in peace, you hero. See you up there.”
If you went to a woman’s funeral, and the priest said,
“Susie was a decent woman.”
You’d be like: “Ugh.
Susie wasn’t trying, was she?
Sounds like your heart wasn’t in it, Suze!
What did you die of? A lack of effort? Christ!
Put her in the ground. Let’s have some sandwiches.”
It’s difficult to be a good person all the time.
It’s difficult to feel like a good person. All the time at the moment.
I don’t feel like a good person at the moment.
Especially in the wake of this COVID pandemic, I feel…
It sounds silly.
…a little responsible for it all.
Because if we’re out to believe the leading theory,
this pandemic, this virus, started in a meat market in China.
So if you’re being lazy and a bit racist about the whole thing,
you could blame the pandemic on two groups of people,
Chinese people and meat eaters.
Now, I don’t know about you, but I am both of those things.
I’m a Chinese meat eater.
All right. One of those things I can’t change.
Obviously. No matter how hard I try, I can’t do anything about.
And the other would require some sort of
facial reconstruction to look less Chinese.
[laughing and applauding]
It sounds expensive and painful.
Yeah. Gotta hand it to the vegans, though.
They were right the whole time, the vegans.
You shouldn’t cram animals unnaturally close to one another.
It’ll all end in tears.
And they’ve been proved right in the most dramatic way imaginable.
And to their credit,
they have seen this opportunity for a huge worldwide I-told-you-so,
and they let it pass.
With uncharacteristic grace.
But I think that’s ’cause deep down, they’re smug about the whole thing.
They’re being quietly smug because they know this is their world now.
This is the world of the vegan now. The COVID era is the age of the vegan.
Because who better equipped to thrive in the coronavirus age
than someone for whom a loss of taste would be a blessed relief.
[whooping and applauding]
“Pass me the mushroom burger, baby! I’ve tested positive!
We’re having seconds tonight.”
I’m not a vegan myself. I’ve given it a good go.
I gave veganism a good go
over the course of a meal.
I’ve decided, that instead, to offset my carbon footprint,
I will just die 20 years early.
There’s an old Buddhist proverb that goes, “A short life well-lived
is better than a long one with quinoa.”
And I think there’s a lot of wisdom in those old texts.
I’ve been trying to eat healthier.
I’ve been trying to get slimmer, fitter, healthier.
Working out and all that.
I’ve let go of the, uh, comforting, but rather spurious idea
that a person’s physical appearance is of no importance at all.
It’s not everything,
but it’s not nothing either.
There’s a happy medium somewhere in between.
But I used to comfort myself with all these old platitudes, you know.
Doesn’t matter how I look on the outside, it’s who I am on the inside that counts.
It turned out who I was on the inside was having trouble breathing.
Even the most well-meaning ideologies have their practical limits.
So I started working out, put some work in,
started working out, exercising. I lost some weight.
Lost a good bit of weight. I lost some weight.
Appreciate it. Really kind. Made it all worth it. Thanks.
Lost some weight recently, lost a good bit.
Mainly from my, uh, dick, which is a shame.
Never know where it’s gonna come off, do you?
You always hope it’s your belly or jawline. For me, it’s my penis.
This is my body now.
This is my physique.
I’m content. I’m content with this body.
I’m not happy.
Don’t worry, I’ve not lost my mind. I’m not happy with my body.
But I’m content, you know.
We’re under too much pressure to be happy with our bodies.
It’s not really the job of your body to make you happy.
Because what is your body? Your body is just a compromise you’ve made
between the lifestyles you want to live at the same time.
What is your body? Your body is the intersection
between your ideal…
and your effort. Right?
This is my body. This is not the body I want.
I want a better body.
But this is how much I want that body.
It’s not like I’ve had no say in the matter.
Just trying to look good. Started working out. Gone to the gym.
Started working out. Thank you!
I started doing, uh, Pilates.
Yeah, that’s right.
Old Philates Wang over here.
I love the Philates.
Gotta get on the ol’ Pilates, everyone. Pilates for the back, you see.
If you don’t know what Pilates is, uh, Pilates is basically atheist yoga.
That’s all it seems to be. Pilates.
I’ve been doing it a while now. It’s just atheist yoga.
It’s yoga without all the fuckin’, you know, ghosts!
There’s none of that.
None of that in Pilates.
Pilates is more like,
“Bend over the stick. There is no God!” That’s Pilates.
I think it’s German.
Started, uh, doing Pilates. Trying to look better.
Trying to look better in my thirties. 31.
Trying to catch the pieces as they fall off, put them back in place.
I’ve started getting better haircuts. This is better, believe it or not!
I used to be a real cheapskate with the haircuts.
I used to go down to the nearest Lebanese guy, give him 10 pounds
and he’d throw a pair of scissors at my head.
I’d hope for the best.
I live in the Lebanese part of London. I don’t hunt down Lebanese people.
Now I go a bit further afield to an East Asian barber.
Now, East Asian hair is quite a unique beast.
It needs the appropriate lived experience. You know?
So I go to an East Asian barber now. I go to a Japanese place.
Because I forgive them.
You know, Nanking was a while ago. PlayStation’s pretty good. Fair enough.
I like my barber. Cool guy.
My barber Tucker. Cool guy, Tucker.
Cool Japanese barber.
I like Tucker. We have good conversations while I’m in the chair.
He’s, uh, got very good English, Tucker. He’s been in the UK a few years now.
But he still has a strong Japanese accent. And understandably, from time to time,
he will not know the English word that he’s reaching for.
But for some reason, he does know the English word,
I don’t know how, where he learned this word.
But I’m so glad he did.
Because it imbues all our conversations with magic.
So I’ll be sat in his chair. He’ll be cutting my hair.
He’ll just be telling me about his weekend.
He’ll just go like,
[in Japanese accent] “I was, uh, watching TV
in my apartment
sitting on my sofa…
and I saw an advert for the…
[in normal voice] There’s no point to this story. I just think it’s funny
when he says, “whatchamacallit.”
It’s a good word to know if you don’t know other words.
It catches a lot of them. Classic Japanese efficiency there.
I feel like some of you got uncomfortable when I did a Japanese accent.
Which is, of course, insane.
But I understand. These are racially fractious times, aren’t they?
Hard to know what is right and wrong.
What is acceptable and what is not. What you can laugh at and what you can’t.
And far be it for me to expect you to take an unnecessary risk for my benefit.
So you are forgiven. However,
for future reference,
and to protect you from future cowardice, I…
For future reference, I’ve come up with some rules.
Some rules of thumb to help you decide in the moment
whether or not it is morally acceptable to do another person’s accent.
Would you like to hear the rules?
Of course you would, you fuckin’ bigots!
So the first rule is, the umbrella rule, the catchall rule is,
if it’s a good accent…
That’s fair. If it’s a good accent, if you put in the time,
research and practice
to really nail that sucker down,
I don’t think anyone has any right to complain.
What can they even say?
“Hey, come on, that’s bang on.” What can they say?
If it’s a good accent, have at it.
Now, that doesn’t cover me in every situation.
So the second rule is,
if the accent in question belongs to a people
who at any time had an empire…
or were on the naughty side during the war…
they’re not allowed to complain either!
Now, this gets you more accents than you think.
You get the obvious ones,
like English, French, Dutch, Portuguese, Spanish, German, blah, blah, blah.
But you get fun ones too!
You get Japanese.
You get, uh, Italian.
You get Turkish. You get Russian.
You get Egyptian.
You get Chinese! Yeah!
Might not be expecting old Wang to give you this green light, but…
I’m hoist with my own petard, yeah.
China is on a perpetual imperial mission, taking over the world.
You’re allowed to do a Chinese accent. We’re strong enough. Uh, we can take it.
I don’t give a shit when someone does a Chinese accent. Water off a Wang’s back.
The eagle does not concern himself with the impressions of the worm.
Couldn’t care less when people do Chinese accents.
Don’t care. My friends seem to care. My white woke friends care very much
when someone does an offensive Chinese accent.
They’ll tell me about people doing offensive Chinese accents.
I’ve never asked them to.
But apparently I have this network of terrified spies…
…who just rush off into the world, get offended on my account and rush back to report.
“[whimpering] Did you see? That celebrity did a Chinese accent!
Piers Morgan did a Chinese accent.
Gigi Hadid on Instagram, she did the eyes. I won’t do them now, but she did the eyes.
Aren’t you sad? Aren’t you offended? Do you feel diminished? You’ll be okay.”
[mumbles, then groans]
We’re going to kill all of you.
[laughing and applauding]
We don’t want to remember who did it, who didn’t do it…
Whatever. Enjoy! Whatever, who cares. Enjoy.
We’re busy, actually.
Don’t know if you’ve noticed, but we’re busy.
Handle your own HR, we’re busy!
We’re flying to the moon. Raking over your footprints. We’re busy.
Taking thousands of photos of your city centers for reconnaissance.
“Oh, just a tourist, just a tourist.”
[laughing and applauding]
[in Mandarin] Ready, fire!
[in English] We’re going to eat you all.
And you won’t even be the weirdest shit we ate that day.
Guys, thank you so much for coming out. Have a good night!
[cheering and applauding]
[hip-hop music playing]