’SOCIAL LEPROSY FOR BEGINNERS’

Hello, my name is Andrew Lawrence and I am a comedian. I say rude things for money and sometimes people laugh. It’s a job that largely consists of travelling around the more unsavoury parts of the country talking nonsense at strangers – mostly pissed-up strangers – for negligible amounts of money. On the social ladder I occupy the rung just between tramp and gypsy.

I’m not sure how I got into this line of work. I’m not an especially sociable person and if there’s one thing that’s difficult to avoid, it’s other people. They’re everywhere. Some of them are very nice, others, well…
Just take a walk down the high street of any town in this country on a Friday or Saturday night – you’ll find yourself immersed in some godforsaken, bestial, filthy, pig-stinking safari of sluttish abandon.
Terry big-bollocks stumbling out of Wetherspoons, vomiting lager on his shoes, pissing in a shop doorway, spilling a kebab down his shirt and collapsing in a skip.

Armies of bleach-blonde, perma-tanned, acrylic-nailed, syphilitic, sprog-popping, knob-munching jizz-buckets. Squealing and belching, vomiting Bacardi Breezers across each other, bits of scratch card between their teeth. Trailing a pram behind them with some feral little proto-racist fuck sitting in it.

People. They’re everywhere – and they all need somewhere to live. We’ve got this disgusting housing crisis where no-one can even afford the scabbiest caravan in the rapiest part of Leeds.

Even if you do manage to buy a little house for yourself, sooner or later some downmarket chimps will move in next door with their screaming, sugared-up, dirty, ugly children. Within a week their front garden’s full of old fridges and broken cookers and there’s an old man sitting on the front wall offering passers by bits of lucky heather. He’s got a chicken under his arm. No shoes; just his feet wrapped in newspaper. You see him squatting behind a bush, shitting into a chip carton. No one needs all that going on next door, do they?

Then, at the other end of the spectrum, you’ve got the stinking rich home-counties cousin-fuckers. Ten years of public school buggery, now they’ve got 14 A-levels, an anus like an elephant’s nostril and a severe case of social retardation.

On the weekend you’ll find them perambulating some organic farm shop looking for hummus and fair trade coffee. Or in their 4X4, driving around town trying to bully normal people in normal cars off the road. Or enjoying an evening at the theatre – £50 a seat to watch some pretentious, weary nonsense. Every ticket sold because the boy from the Harry Potter films comes on stage and gets his cock out. After that, there’s nothing they like more than to head home, nip down to the pantry, smear each other in pan-fried foie gras and shit in each others’ mouths. Good luck to them. Each to their own.

CLOSING RESULTS

So what do you reckon? Did Andrew raise a titter, or did he make you want to razor his tits off?

YES: 27% NO: 73%