A cunting for that comic ”struggling for relevance’, Stewart Lee.
In a rather febrile article/rant in his beloved Guardian on three of his betes noir, poor Stewart decides to project his own diminishing comedic currency on the world-famous cultural institution Jeremy Clarkson, ‘a car man in idiot’s trousers’ (me neither) who has apparently been knocked into irrelevance by fast-moving online ‘incels’ (a popular but revealing insult of the lonely left) in a metaphorical Swastika-emblazoned Bugatti Chiron on the highway to the far-right.
Bogeyman of chattering liberals Boris Johnson gets dragged in because he’s a populist, but also a toff who once used the term piccaninnies, and populism means the awful proles have something they can get behind.
Hold the pomander to your nose, Dalston trendies.
Mr Lee then revisits his seething hatred/resentment for the son of a labourer from Reading, a man who has raked in vastly more cash and fame than Lee doing the same job as him, and in half the time, Ricky Gervais.
Gervais is described in the form of a joke, alluding to him walking into a bar with a pile of dogshit (gasp!) on his shoulder (his comedy set), as he monetises the outrage of ‘furious moronic c**ts’.
The irony here is unintended..
To top off his petulance is his long-standing unfamiliarity with historical fact, The former entertainer Mr Lee decided that Aborigines had lived in Australia at least 3 times longer than the archaelogical record shows, but then he’s not too sharp on who lived where and when. He has form in making false comparisons of the immigration of ‘beaker people’, Romans, Saxons and Hugenots to the immigration policy of Blair, and forgets to give the actual figures, the recent influxes being orders of magnitude greater than the historical examples he gives to his tittering hipster thralls.
If only more than a few dozen people read his column, and more than seven attended his symposia… comedy performances, there’d be more enlightened souls to share his profound insights and utterances with, but then space is limited in his Shoreditch haunts, being laughed at by peope who almost certainly delighted in Boris Johnson being hospitalised.
From the hatred exhibited by Mr Lee, it’s not hard to see the appeal he might have for these types.
From’ East London bars I stab at thee, Mr Johnson. From a feminist poetry reading I spit at thee, Mr Gervais.
Gimp.
Nominated by Cuntamus Prime
