OK, so no one else found a child crying as much fun as I did. I got a few emails from "parents" yesterday who want me to know that I don't understand anything about raising a child. I don't understand anything about raising a child? That's NOTHING. I don't even know how wasps fuck. Please don't waste your time writing to me to tell me all the things that I don't know. It's a mammoth task that you're setting for yourself and, knowing me, I probably won't take it all in anyway.
They are right, of course. I know nothing about raising a child. I imagine that it must be a 24 hour a day, every day worry that your child will eat poison or burst in to flames or have unprotected sex or get mauled by a wolf or disappear or, terrifyingly, want to sing on stage in front of the country's biggest cunts. I do know that if I did make a big sex mistake and had a child that if it begged and pleaded to go on Britain's Got Talent that I would try to protect it from that horror. I'm sure most kids who are constantly told how brilliant they are can't quite grasp the stone cold fact that if they enter a competition there is a chance that they may not win. So, just to spare them heartbreak, maybe lets not sell them to a TV show who will then take a clip of them failing in front of a big audience of arseholes so that an even bigger audience of arseholes can laugh at them for all eternity.
I'm not a parent, though, so it's just a theory. I'm sure Mum knows best.
Strangely, I've got a few more emails just in the last couple of days all with the same query: "How come you don't say cunt anymore?"
I haven't noticed this. I thought I'd said the cunt-word several times a day since I was about 12 but if I've slipped either in the amount of cunts I say or in your estimation then I apologise. Allow me to say cunt a lot, please.
On Sunday, I was happy. My acting career had soared from not being an actor to being in a play in a matter of minutes, I met my new man-crush Terry and I'd seen a child cry. That's a good day, in my book. Of course, there was more joy to come when I woke up on Monday.
I looked on Twitter and @CripesonFriday had sent me a link that he thought would make me smile. It did. I read it while a single tear of pure joy trickled down my big face. The link brought me to chortle.co.uk and the news that Horne & Corden, the fucking cunts, would now not be getting a second series of their cancer of a sketch show. Somehow, TV executives had seen that something was truly awful and, in a complete alternative to the norm, decided to pass on it instead of making it again and again and again and again and again until we all die of Corden.
I realise that I'm just as big a cunt as Corden for taking glee in another part of his downfall but I realise that I have to take my glee where I can these days. I mean, he's down now but who knows what horrors grinning, smug, looky-me, Stay-Puft nightmare could come up with next?
Cuntingtons. It's just "put on hold". SEE? Somehow he laughed first but still laughs longest! Read this depressing article and weep. Especially at the last four words: http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/entertainment/8403317.stm
The worst thing that I have ever seen.