Warning this blog contains words, and material that some cunts may find offensive.
This past weekend was Saint Patrick’s Day and I was performing at the Glasgow International Comedy Festival.
It is a great Comedy Festival and Glasgow is a really brilliant city to perform comedy in.
There is an old thing with comedians that it’s a hard city to perform in, but I have always found the Glasgow audiences to be great fun, full of banter, and definitely up for a good laugh.
I suppose it helps that I’m not English.
An English act might get given a slightly harder time from their Northern neighbours.
We have a similar, (hopefully playful), dislike of the English in Northern Ireland.
In fact when I was at primary school I had a friend who we all called The English Bastard.
That’s all the poor guy was ever known as….The English Bastard.
The thing is he was not actually English… his family had been for a long weekend in Blackpool.
I used to be the resident compere of the Belfast Empire a few years ago and the English acts would often get given a hard time.
If they couldn’t handle the heckling they got booed off.
Booed off, and then bought drinks all night by the audience and told not to worry about it.
If they could handle the heckling, they would have the best the gig of their life, and then get bought drinks all night by the audience and told epic tales about the other English acts who had got booed off.
As an Irish comedian I have always found Glasgow to be like a home gig, the Northern Irish and the Glaswegians seem very alike; both like a bit of a drink, and a spot of banter, both celebrate their Celtic cultures, and both have an underlying threat of sectarian violence to spice things up a bit.
St Patrick’s Day in Glasgow.
Really they should rename it; “Put on a Guinness hat and act like a wanker day”.
A group of really drunk lads passed me in the street and shouted;
“We are all Irish today”
“Yes you might be Irish today but you’ll be hung-over cunts in the morning”
I think Churchill said that.
I woke up with a terrible hangover the day after St Pat’s.
You know the kind of hang over where you feel the need to count all your teeth to make sure that you still have them.
I did still have all my teeth, but a couple of them where in my pocket.
My stomach was sick, my head was splitting.
From now on I don’t think Crystal Meth is going to be my official St Patrick’s Day drug.
The use of the C word or as I like to call it The Cunt Word.
I love that in Glasgow they have quite colourful, earthy language.
In fact in Glasgow the word cunt is not even a swear word…..in Glasgow the word cunt is a comma!
And a term of endearment; “Aye he is a lovely auld cunt”.
I can illustrate this with a story;
I was in Glasgow performing at the Stand Comedy club.
I had taken my girlfriend with me and we were staying at the club owner’s house.
On the Saturday night after the show as was their habit, they threw a wee party.
There were a whole bunch of comedians sitting around drinking, and as is the rule whenever three or more comedians are in the same room together, we were all bitching about people.
One of the comics, who shall remain nameless to protect the guilty, was a really good Glaswegian comedian who I shall call Roymand Merans.
(I’m sure that most Scottish acts will know who I’m talking about…. it’s Raymond Mearns, but don’t let on).
Roymand was complaining about a promoter who had recently ripped him off, and he said that your man was; “an untrustworthy bastard”.
As he said the word “bastard”, he turned to my girlfriend (the only non comic in the gathering), saying:
“Excuse my language love, but you see that cunt, that cunt is a right cunt”
Beautiful triple use of the word cunt as a way of apologising for saying bastard.
A Traditional Scottish Welcome.
I have another good Raymond story;
I was again performing at the Stand Comedy Club in Glasgow, and Raymond was the compere.
Again my girlfriend had come with me, and after the shows were done we were heading off to the Isle of Mull where we had rented a holiday cottage for the next week.
We were very excited, and were chatting about it in the dressing room.
On the Sunday morning we got up early, had breakfast in the hotel, threw our stuff in the car, and drove for three hours over to Oban.
In Oban we had lunch, and caught the ferry over to Mull.
It’s a beautiful ferry crossing on a good day, and the hour just flew past.
Upon landing in Mull we headed off to the cottage.
We had been emailed directions, which we followed to the letter:
Head out of the ferry port in Craignure, and drive to the small town of Bunessan.
It’s not far but it is a small road so allow 2 hours.
Just after Bunessan you will see a small, disused quay, turn left onto the gravel road.
Drive up the small road to the end where you will see a farmer’s gate, open the gate and follow the dirt track for about 3 miles.
At the next gate the track gets a bit rougher, but keep on for about 20 minutes.
You will see a farmhouse, park in the yard, and we will give you the keys and further directions to the cottage.
So we did all that, in that order.
The last bit was just dirt track and a bit of a struggle without a Four Wheel Drive.
The farmhouse totally seemed to be in the middle of nowhere.
It felt like we had driven to the ends of the earth.
As we pulled into the farmyard a man’s head appeared at a second floor window.
“Hello are you Martin?”
“Raymond Mearns says you’re a cunt!
By coincidence this guy was an old work colleague of Raymond’s.
They hadn’t been in touch for ages, but my talking about Mull had prompted Raymond to phone his old friend.
Raymond had mentioned the acts that he had been working with that weekend, and the guy recognised my name from the emails I’d sent him when booking the cottage.
He put two and two together, resulting in the best practical joke I’ve ever had played on me involving a car, a ferry, a stretch of dirt road, a holiday cottage and getting called a cunt.
Don’t be offended.
I know that some people are still offended by the cunt word.
I really don’t see how anyone can be?
How easy must your life be that you have the time and energy to be offended by a word that someone said?
I don’t think that people in a war zone are offended if someone calls the unmanned drone that just blew up their cattle a naughty word.
I don’t think peaceful protesters being beaten up by a dictator’s paramilitary police force are upset by bad language.
I don’t think people eking out a living by scavenging through rubbish dumps are bothered if someone gets a bit sweary.
So next time you hear any words that you don’t like, instead of being offended you should be grateful, as it reminds you just how lucky you are.
You lucky cunt!
(Raymond Mearns has a website; www.raymondmearns.info)