Work! Consume! Die!: I Am Actually Almost Completely Insane Now
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Brace yourself, Frankie's back, and he's more outspoken and brilliantly inappropriate than ever. There are fears that this year could see the start of a double-dip recession, or worse still a double-dip-with-misery-sprinkles and f**k-where's-my-job?-sauce. Why not chuckle into the howling void as taloned fingers reach up to consume you with Frankie Boyle's new book, Work! Consume! Die! In Work! Consume! Die! stand-up comedy's favourite pessimist, Frankie Boyle, offers his outrageous, laugh-out-loud, cynical rant on life as he knows it. He describes your reality as viewed through a bloodshot eye pressed against a shit-smeared telescope, focused on hell: * 'Charlie Sheen's life consists of going on huge drug benders with groups of porn stars. If he straightened himself out he could have a really mediocre career as a bit-part Hollywood actor. Playing the role of Martin Sheen's corpse. He's crazy like a fox! And also actually crazy. What a tragic waste, not being Charlie Sheen is. How majestic it will be for him to die, possibly quite soon, knowing that when they make a movie of his life, it will be a porno.' * 'The X Factor will be allowed to show product placements. That's powerful advertising. Last series I realised that looking at the judges alone had made me subconsciously buy a gnome, a scrag-end of mutton, a vacuous mannequin and a suspected gay.' * 'The Taliban are running out of bullets. Operation 'Get our troops to absorb them with their bodies' is finally paying off. The Taliban are finding it impossible to get hold of essential supplies - at last we're fighting on equal terms. But let's not get complacent. Just because they're running out of bullets we mustn't assume our boys won't get shot. Remember, the US troops have still got plenty.' A no-holds-barred tour de force of comic writing, Work! Consume! Die! is Frankie Boyle at his brutal, taboo-busting best. This is nothing more or less than the clanging call to arms of a dying mechanical God.
are converting to Islam at an alarming rate, almost as alarming as the rate at which we are converting young Muslim men into prisoners. It’s a great idea. They’re going to be on their hands and knees five times a day anyway, so why not incorporate prayer? When they die they get bummed in heaven by 72 first-time offenders. Convicts are getting methadone in prison. No wonder – the last thing I want to feel in a gangbang is my nerve endings. It’s felt that these prisoners could not cope with life
ruthlessly intelligent as they claim. Look at the evidence of his white-supremacist plan for saving Norway’s white population. Step one: kill loads of white people. Experts said there were some signs that he might be insane. What would they be? The cruel and heartless way he took the lives of 80 people? Or something more obvious, like writing his death diary in green ink? Breivik wanted to appear in military clothing at his trial, but the judge explained you can only legitimately wear the
mountains and forests on board in silver blankets? There is a tense, silent ride into the galaxy until one of the oceans starts sobbing and breaks down … ‘You don’t know how terrible it was out there, we … we … had to eat Atlantis!’ The Sun even reported that sat navs and home freezers would no longer work. That’s some apocalyptic vision of the future they’ve created – a lawless land where men roam without direction trying to prepare their own Yorkshire pudding batter. The Large Hadron Collider
imagination of a film obsessive but after the second time I did start to think there was something really strange happening. I’ve read about shamanism, people having encounters with their guardian spirit. Or maybe it was just something weird in that last batch of meth. He never said anything, just seemed to be weighing me up with that strange, distant look. There was all this other stuff going on at the time, what with breaking up with Karen. And we’d come to the attention of some people. Well,
exist. I may sound unfashionable but I happen to think using the ‘F’ word on TV is unacceptable. Unless, of course, your blowtorch has run out of gas half way through caramelising a crème brûlée. Now Wayne may have to attend anger-management classes. Which will involve wiring a plastic banana up to a 9-volt car battery. I don’t think shouting ‘What do you want?!’ at the viewers of Sky Sports should incur a ban – I think it makes him one of Britain’s greatest moral philosophers. In Wayne’s