The value of PÆDOPHILES!

Before I start this story, let me just say, for the record, that I don’t like pædophiles. I don’t like what they do, I don’t like their politics and I certainly don’t like the music they listen to. I also don’t like the way that society will bend and twist and warp in bizarre and expensive ways in order to stop pædophiles from doing what they do.

Australian Communications Minister Stephen Conroy is in the middle of trying to firewall all of Australia’s internet access so that pædos can’t look at kiddie porn. What a massive waste of money, time and effort. It’s a ridiculous idea since any tech-savvy nonce will be able to get around it, and lots of non-pædo websites will be “accidentally” added to the list so that Australians can’t visit them.

Let’s hope that Conroy never looks intently at the stars. If he does, he might realise that if you squint, from a certain angle, the constellation of Orion looks like a naked ten-year-old boy winking at you seductively. Once that cat’s out of the bag, he’ll probably order the government to turn off the night sky. We wouldn’t want all the nocturnal pædos to get astronomical hard-ons now would we?

So with that in mind, let me tell you a story about value and pædophiles.

Last week I sat bolt-upright in bed at five in the morning having just thought of a joke that I thought I might be able to put in my new show. Since ideas for jokes can strike at any time, I always keep have a notepad with me, so that I can at least get the core idea down before it gets replaced by a more mundane thought, like how much I like porridge. I turned on the light, picked up my notepad and scrawled the word PÆDOPHILES across the page in attention-grabbing block capitals before flipping the leaf over and jotting down the crux of the joke on the back. Just so you know, the joke was about pædophiles, I don’t just scribble non-sequiturs on one side of the page and jokes on the other. At the time I thought “this is a cracking gag”, and so I was very happy with myself as I settled down to sleep until a more reasonable hour.

I woke up a few hours later and smiled when I saw the notepad as I was looking forward to fleshing out the joke later in the day. A new joke is a wonderful thing. It’s not only fun for an audience to hear, but it’s also very rewarding to create something out of nothing; especially if that something is very funny.

In order to remind myself to make time to write the joke, I tore the pædo page out of the book and jammed it into the back pocket of my jeans so I would see it while running my morning errands and think about it before I got back to doing the actual writing. My fiancee works during the day, which leaves me to look after the house admin and keep our daughter Florence alive while she’s at work. In preparation for running the errands, I put Florence in her baby-sling and strapped her to my chest like a paternal suicide bomber’s explosive vest, then I picked up all the bills, shopping lists and letters, stuffed them into my pockets and made my way down to the post office.

The post office was rammed with people as per usual. Instead of dealing with the problem of postal queues, which have been longer than Ron Jeremy since time immemorial, the government seems to be constantly expanding the portfolio of services the post office offers, seemingly in order to keep the queue outrageously long. It won’t be long before you’re unable to see a doctor until you’ve taken yourself down the post office, stood in a line for six hours and had the teller examine the suspect lump in your balls to determine if you really need a doctor or if you could just made do with a first class stamp and a passport application.

While waiting in the queue, which seemed to stretch from London to Hades and back via Cornwall, Florence woke up and started to fidget and scream which did wonders for the temperament queue of eighty people that have already been waiting for a teller since some time in the mid-seventies. By the time we got to the front, Florence was howling like a harpy and the rest of the crowd were at boiling point, not angry with Florence, but furious with me for not having the skills to keep her happy or quiet. As I rounded the last bollard of the maze they make us line up in, I reached into my back pocket for the gas bill I had to pay, but it caught on another piece of paper, and as I pulled the bill out of my pocket, the page torn out of my notepad fell to the floor and landed, PÆDOPHILES side up, in plain sight of everyone who was waiting for a teller.

Now in any normal circumstance I’d swoop down and pick up the paper before anyone was any the wiser, but because Florence was strapped to my chest like a portable air-raid siren, as I bent down, her leg was pinched between the the sling and my chest which caused her to belt out a howl of pain like nails down a blackboard, but a blackboard attached to angry cats that are simultaneously fucking and fighting. As Florence screamed, everyone’s attention was drawn to the paper, and not just what’s on it, but also the fact that I was desperately trying to reach it. Had it been any other piece of paper, I would have happily left it there, but it was covered in the only copy of the notes that I’d written for the joke, and if I’d have left it there, I would have lost those jokes forever.

Now my attachment to this paper might seem bizarre, but jokes put bread on comedians’ tables and when the jokes are old and stale, so is the bread. That piece of paper contained the essence of what may become a ten minute routine which, if included in a solo show or club set, could be worth thousands of pounds. A thousand-pound-note is always worth reaching for, even if it has Gary Glitter on the front and Pete Townsend on the back.

Unfortunately, I couldn’t reach the paper and had to ask the woman behind me in the line to help me pick up the paper. Now regardless of the what you may think about comedians, jokes or children, you have to admit, that you’d never like to be in a crowded post office, full of angry people with a child strapped to you chest having the following conversation:

“Excuse me, could you please pick up that piece of paper for me, I can’t quite reach it… No, not that one, the one with the writing on it. No, the other one with the writing on it.”
“…No, it’s one that says pædophiles!”

Heads turned, people coughed, the piano player stopped (how long had he been there?).

The woman that picked it up didn’t give it back to me straight away. She looked at the paper, looked at me, looked at Florence (still screaming) and tutted loud enough for everyone to hear. It was a tut of condemnation. One that said “you’re everything that’s wrong with the world and I hope you burn… cute baby.” Only then did she reluctantly handed me the offensive scrap, pinching it between thumb and forefinger as though it might give her AIDS.

I should have just let the paper go, my determination to get it back was written across my face and that’s what was freaking people out. The problem wasn’t so much that the paper said ‘pædophiles’ but that I so obviously attributed value to something which, to most people, was completely devoid of any worth.

If we were to chart the value of the piece of paper from its beginnings, we’d see that as a tree it held a lot of value, both in an environment and aesthetic sense. As soon as the tree was pulped (fig 1.), its value dropped as it’s of very little use to anyone in that state. As soon as it’s made into blank paper, it regains some value, maybe one penny if sold as an individual sheet, not a lot, but it has value because of it’s potential. A blank piece of paper can become anything: A paper plane, a canvas for a great work of art, the foundation of a poem, letter or story. Perhaps someone will use it to sketch a design that brings cheap clean energy to the world, or the chemical formula for a possible cancer cure. Or maybe someone just will wake up at five in the morning, and in black bold letters, emblazon it with the word PÆDOPHILES!

At this point, something very curious happens to its value. To me, the paper soars in value as it contains the formula for a joke which is potentially worth thousands of pounds. The value comes from that fact that until I flesh the joke out, it really only exists on the paper, there’s no room for it in my brain yet, what with my fondness for rolled oats. If I lose the paper, I lose the joke and all the potential earnings with it. To anyone else however, scrawling the word PÆDOPHILES across anything – paper, glass, even actual pædophiles – will rarely add to its value. If anything, it will decrease the value as most people tend not to avoid objects with objectionable words written on them. This is why you will rarely see a business man’s suit embroidered with the word CUNT.

As soon as the joke is written out however, the paper drops in value back to zero as it transforms from a sheaf of comedy gold, to something which, if left around the house, will just piss off my fiancee and confuse her parents.


click to enlarge

At this point, the piece of paper is destined to be of little value to anyone until it can be recycled and perhaps turned into something less likely to make a post office full of people scowl in self-righteous judgement. The only other hope for the paper in its current form is that the pædophile joke becomes so popular that it makes me incredibly famous, in which case, the original scrap of paper with the joke that catalysed my rise to stardom will probably skyrocket in value. The best possible outcome would be if the paper were auctioned at Southerby’s and bought by the lady who hated me in the post office but I’ll be the first to admit that won’t happen, mainly because I don’t think that she was the kind of woman to laugh at a pædophile joke. Not even a really good one.

Either way, it’s a moot point now since I lost the note later that afternoon and with it, all hope of reconstructing the pædophile joke. As a result, the paper will remain inherently worthless until it’s binned, burnt or buried by the sands of time, whichever comes first. However, while I no longer have a pædo joke, I do have meta-narrative about the note itself which, if popular enough, could in fact restore some value to the scrap of paper.

“What is that tiny shred?”
“It’s the fabled pædo-paper.”
“From the legend?”
“The very same.”

Even if the paper itself is never found, it’s now been immortalised in story and will live on in our hearts and minds forever, far surpassing any expectations that we could have had for it as a scrap of paper covered in crass jokes. It’s now the hub of a story about the metaphysical nature of value, which is far loftier than a mere gag about nonces. Perhaps I should be happy that the note has transcended its physical boundaries and become something greater, something immortal, a symbol for all other hastily written notes; but I can’t deny that there is a part of me that longs to have the scrap back in my hands. Not because I value the physical over the intangible, or that only appreciate material things… It’s just… it was a really funny pædo joke.

Where Have All The Gentlemen Gone?

The only memorable impression I have of Stockport, is a result of the toilets at the train station; perhaps not the most glamourous of beginnings, but you’ve got to start somewhere.

Last week I was travelling to Buxton to perform at the Fringe Festival, or more accurately, to cancel shows at the Fringe Festival due to a distinct lack of audience, and had to change trains in Stockport where I was caught short. I normally try to avoid the toilets at train stations as I’m not a fan of hepatitis and generally don’t need to buy heroin, but on this day both my bladder and circumstance were conspiring against me so I had to make the dash.

A station with open and operational toilets seems to be a rarity in these dangerous times. It seems the risk of fundamentalist insurgents hiding high-explosives in a large unflushable shit and depositing them in a train station loo is great enough to warrant keeping the toilets in a permanent state of bladder taunting closure. In Stockport however, sanity has prevailed, the station operators no doubt realising that the presence of terrorism in the world and the basic human requirement to urinate on a semi-regular basis are not mutually exclusive.

I found a station attendant, politely asked him for directions to the toilet and was directed to platform three where I braced myself for, at the very least, a rancid smorgasbord for the senses. Thanks to some spot-on directions, I found the toilets without issue and scoffed audibly when I noticed that the sign on the door read “gentlemen”. Considering some of the whopping specimens of humanity banging around Stockport station I thought that this was perhaps the most ironic sign in the world. It must be a joke, because if you took it at face value, it was at best a misrepresentation, and at worst, a lie.

When was the last time a “gentleman” had stopped in for a piss at Stockport toilets? When was the last time a Gentleman called for his driver to halt the carriage on the way to the opera, apologised to his beloved sitting across from him, stepped into the street, trotted up the station steps, leapt over the ticket barrier, strode to platform three, found the conveniences, avoided being blown-up by a shit-covered bomb, unbuttoned coat & breeches and managed to relieve himself? Never; that’s when.

Have the station staff no pride in the accuracy of their signage? It starts with mis-labelling the bathroom clientele as “gentlemen” but you know that the madness will continue until all the notices are lies and the electric rail is labelled as “Child’s toy, please touch”.

Perhaps they are in the process of changing the signs to something more accurate – based on the station’s male patrons, I’d say “fuck-knuckle” would have been pretty apt – but that it’s a highly skilled job requiring diplomacy, intellect, grace, aplomb and a deft hand with a soft touch. Perhaps there are only one or two people in the country qualified to replace “gentlemen” with their modern day equivalent and they’re up to their eyeballs, trying to update every train station toilet sign in the UK.

Personally, I hope that “gentlemen” is intentional, left there in the hope of inspiring the men of Stockport to perhaps become Gentlemen, as least for a few brief minutes while they empty their bladders and/or bowels. What a wonderfully optimistic strategy for a noble goal that would be, improving the calibre of the men in the world with inspirational signage. Optimistic, because it’s unlikely to succeed and noble because if there’s one thing this world could do with, it’s more gentlemen.

We’ve got man’s men, ladies’ men, hard men, tough men, metrosexuals, homosexuals, transexuals, bisexuals and heterosexuals. We’ve got go-getters, trend-setters, junkies, tramps and thieves, but where oh where have the gentlemen gone? Where are the men that will open doors and shake hands, offer seats and handkerchiefs? Men who are quick to act, but slow to fight, keen to enquire and willing to assist? If the signs are to be believed, then they’re in the toilets at Stockport station.

Perhaps that’s where they’re hunkering down. Maybe they saw a world too callous and cruel to embrace their placid, giving nature and decided to wait for the current climate of selfishness and suspicion to blow over, before striding out to make their way in a world that was ready to accept a polite man that refuses to fight.

I push on the door and enter into a surprisingly quite, clean, almost pleasant room. Expecting a typical piss-drenched tile-nightmare, I quicly glance back out the door to ensure that I haven’t stumbled through some Narnia-esque portal, but my eyes confirm what my brain won’t believe, I am in fact standing in a public toilet and I’m not dry retching. Neither am I surrounded by a cadre of gentlemen cowering from a unforgiving world. Despite only requiring the facilities for the briefest of moments, the experience is so shockingly pleasant that I’m tempted to put down my bag and soak up the atmosphere on the bench provided. Reluctantly I leave the toilets to catch my connecting train from the station’s mysteriously named “platform 0” (which I can only assume is Stockport’s homage to both Harry Potter and Being John Malkovich).

On my way to the train I pass a teenage boy-man-idiot, smoking on the platform and swearing into his mobile phone. He’s ignoring his girlfriend who is calling out to him for help as she tries to drag their twin kids in a double pram up the steps to the platform. Seeing a young woman in obvious distress, an old man at the bottom of the stairs drops his bags and lifts up the bottom edge of the pram, helping the woman carry it to the top of the stairs. While the woman thanks the old man for his help, her partner, Smokey McFucktrain, throws his cigarette onto the tracks and yells “Fuck off away from my kids you old paedo!” before returning to berating whoever is on the other end of his phone. The old man ignores the insult, offers the young woman a little bow and returned to his bags at the bottom of the stairs.

I quickly hustle past the pram scene and made my way down the stairs towards platform 0. As I pass the old man in the underpass, I nod hello to him, whereupon he stops me and asks if I know where the toilets are. I smile. “Head to the end of platform 3, they’re well sign-posted, you won’t miss them.”

As I climb aboard my platform zero train from Stockport to Buxton I think about the toilets again. There might not be many gentlemen left in the world and considering the scene I’d just witnessed you can understand why. Who wants to go out of their way to be nice when it’s only going to earn you a bollocking from a fuck-tard on a train platform? But, despite this, gentlemen exist, chipping away at the callousness of the world. They might not have our gratitude, they might not have our support, but at least they have a public toilet bearing their name on a train platform in Stockport.