Work! Consume! Die!. Frankie Boyle

days I think it’s shite …’ I offer over my shoulder while I’m plugging the controllers in.

      ‘Like having a kid!’ slurs Murphy, but he’s got kids so we all groan at the harshness.

      Murphy gets bored of the football. He can never get the shooting right, always just fucks it over the bar. He’s sitting through in the lounge of the real flat watching MTV loudly, as Paul and I fight a gripping series of Old Firm encounters. I play as Celtic and the ref is even biased on the fucking PlayStation, Marshy getting away with several tackles Frank Miller’s Batman would have been proud of.

      I wake Murphy up when I’m going to bed and he phones a cab. As I’m saying goodnight to Paul, I notice the wee light flashing on my laptop. David Murphy doesn’t even know any porn sites and has just pishedly typed the word ‘groped’ into Google.

      I go into my room and start the big stretching session I always have before bed. No matter how long I do, my legs always ache when I get up. Telegram from Mr Death! He’s sorry he can’t be with you right now! Telegram from Mr Death!

      I’m in the middle of a confused dream where I’m married to a Muslim woman who won’t let me fuck her, when I hear the drill of the doorbell. I bang through to the living room and nearly fall over Paul, who for some reason is sleeping on the floor, right beside the couch. As I open the door, I look behind me and check we closed the wall, and when I look back I see two massive cops.

      They’re plainclothes, CID or what have you. The older one has those watery eyes some older Scottish guys have, like he’s about to start greeting. In front of him is a man with a side-parting who looks like an enormous schoolboy.

      ‘Mr Francis Boyle?’ he asks, but it’s not really a question. ‘Alright if we come in?’

      All the grass is through in the stateroom, I can see it in my mind’s eye. It’s on the big tarpaulin I put down so we wouldn’t get burns on the carpet. ‘Paul! We have visitors!’ I shout, and he leaps up startled. Literally springs up like he’s part of an ambush, then sits down suddenly on the couch, internalising a massive spasm of guilt.

      The two cops are making a show of looking about, like explorers in a bad movie. I make them a cup of tea and we all sit down around the tiny kitchen table while Paul sits rigidly in the other room, too paranoid to leave. I expect some kind of introduction but there is none.

      ‘This is a fairly unusual matter,’ the younger one starts happily. ‘I believe you know the TV presenter Dom Joly?’

      I try to shrug but the mug I’m holding is too full, so it comes over like a twitch. ‘Eh, not really. I met him a couple of times doing panel shows. We did a couple of panel shows together.’

      ‘Panel shows,’ agrees the older one mournfully, his eyes filling right up like tears are going to start rolling down his face.

      ‘Mr Joly was the subject of a serious sexual assault over the weekend,’ chirps the other guy. I don’t really register what he says at first. I’m aware that I’m not really saying anything and I start to feel uneasy.

      ‘Dom Joly?’ I ask foolishly. They don’t acknowledge this in any way, so I say, ‘sexually assaulted?’ and then there’s a long pause.

      ‘Dom Joly has been sexually assaulted,’ the old policeman confirms sadly. ‘Dom Joly from Trigger Happy TV.’

      ‘God, I’m sorry to hear that,’ I say, trying for a concerned look and tone. I actually feel nothing or – if possible – less than nothing. ‘He’s a big guy,’ I add puzzledly.

      ‘It’s believed Mr Joly was drugged, although we are still looking for a physically powerful attacker,’ side-parting confides excitedly.

      ‘That’s terrible.’ I look blankly at the digestive beside my cup that it would now be inappropriate to dunk. ‘Someone drugged his drink, or …’

      ‘They somehow got the drug into food served in his dressing room,’ he explains.

      ‘A Chicken Kiev,’ watery eyes announces.

      I feel a rising, horrified excitement. The sort you feel when somebody dies. ‘Am I a suspect?’

      They both laugh.

      ‘No, no, no, Mr Boyle.’ They beam silently at me for a bit. ‘You are on a list of, eh, celebrities we’re contacting in case they may be in danger.’

      ‘Danger? In danger of, eh …?’

      ‘Of being sexually assaulted,’ the old guy nods vigorously. ‘Of being subjected to the same kind of sexual assault as Mr Joly … there have been other incidents like this involving other, eh, celebrities.’

      ‘The suspicion is that this guy has been operating for several years, attacking people who have been famous but then slip below a certain level of public recognition,’ his partner explains, inexplicably ending by smacking his fist into his open palm.

      I hold my tea in both hands like I’m nursing a Scotch. I try to think of a polite way of asking, then blurt out, ‘Who? Who else has he raped?’

      The old boy flips open a notebook. ‘A lot of the presenters from The 11 O’Clock Show, Tony Slattery, Steve Punt, Sam Fox, Michael Greco, two … no, all three of the ladies from Smack the Pony, Frank Sidebottom, before he died. We can’t really name people.’

      ‘This has been going on for a while?’

      ‘It seems to be getting more active. And he seems to be focusing his anger on comedy.’

      ‘Everybody does,’ I smile.

      As I show them out, Paul gets up halfway as some sort of farewell and it ends up looking like a curtsy. They both shake my hand warmly and, as the younger cop heads out, the old guy grips me by the arm and forces something into my hand. He fixes me with the liquid eyes of a dying spaniel and leaves without a word.

      Half an hour later Paul and I are still smoking a joint on the couch, passing the picture back and forth. It’s a dressing room. I reckon it’s an ITV dressing room at LWT. In the foreground you can see part of a guy lying on the floor, his trousers off and a huge arse exposed. Is this Dom Joly? Is he fucking dead? Why would they take a photo while he was still unconscious? Did the rapist take it? On the wall is the real focus of the piece. Written in blood (presumably, we agree, Dom Joly’s arseblood) is a slogan in block capitals.

      ‘SHOWBUSINESS HAS NO BOTTOM.’

      Abu Ghraib was not simply a case of American arrogance towards a Third World people: in being submitted to humiliating tortures, the Iraqi prisoners were effectively initiated into American culture. They were given a taste of its obscene underside, which forms the necessary supplement to the public values of personal dignity, democracy and freedom. Bush was thus wrong: what we are getting when we see the photos of the humiliated Iraqi prisoners on our screens and front pages is precisely a direct insight into American values, into the very core of the obscene enjoyment that sustains the US way of life.

      Slavoj Žižek, Violence

       Chapter 1

      It’s interesting that war is the ultimate in reality television and yet the British public couldn’t be less interested. Remember when they used to have to persuade the country to go to war? Fake up a dossier? Remember when they even used to announce a war? Now, it’s just, ‘Hey, we’re bombing Libya!’ Soon they won’t even bother with that and we’ll only find out who we’re fighting when our friends send us a postcard saying that their hotel buffet just got destroyed by a pilotless attack drone, or when we accidentally read