A-LIST CASE STUDY NO.2: FRANKIE BOYLE

ONCE UPON A TIME, near-the-knuckle funnyman Frankie represented everything the Woke Brigade stands against. Penning a superb regular column for Britain’s finest newspaper – The Sun – and cracking side-splitting jibes about paedophilia and the Queen’s vagina, the outrageous Scotch jester was the scourge of the snowflake liberal elite.

But in recent times, Boyle appears to have been brainwashed by Marxist propaganda, and his Twitter feed is now a constant stream of four-letter abuse of our brave and brilliant Tory government. And you can bet a Scottish ten-pound note that freshly-woke Frankie was gloating his sporran off when news broke of No.10 staff mocking a security guard who tried to break up their lockdown party (which, incidentally, wasn’t even a ‘party’ – merely a work event that happened to feature cake, wine and some light vomiting).

Boyle was quick to slam the Tory cabinet’s good-natured pleb-baiting then – but can the risqué comic really say he treats his OWN security staff any better?

Let’s see, shall we...

Disguised as a bodyguard, with black bomber jacket, shades and a sturdy leather cosh, I approach the London studio where Boyle films his satirical TV show, Frankie Boyle’s New World Order. I’m hoping he will employ me as his new security detail so I can begin an undercover investigation into how he treats me. First, however, I need to convince him that he actually needs a security detail.

Using the crowbar concealed up my sleeve, I give Boyle’s dressing room window a hard tap. It shatters easily – an encouraging sign that he will have good use for my services. Clambering inside, I seal the deal by systematically destroying all his possessions and doing a shit on his carpet. When Boyle sees there’s been a ‘break-in’, he’s sure to sign me straight up.

Just as I’m laying my cable, I hear footsteps down the corridor. Boyle appears at the door as I am pulling up my trousers, and quick as a flash I adopt a flawless proletarian Scottish accent as I address my new employer. “A’right Muster Boyle, sur, bonny tae meet ye,” I cluck, in my finest Highlands brogue.

“Thir’s been a wee brekk-in, as ye kin see. But yir nae tae worry. Ah’m yir noo security guaird, an’ ah’ll get tae the bottom o’ it, nae bother, Jimmy.”

Given his pompous fury about how Downing Street officials ‘mistreated’ their own guards, I’m assuming that bleeding heart Boyle will rush forward to greet me with a warm, welcoming handshake.

I could not be more wrong.

Gary Neville at least made an effort to conceal his seething hatred of lowincome workers, but Boyle does nothing of the sort. Coming face to face with a minimum-wage slave, his anger and fear are palpable. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing in here?” he demands, staring at the cosh in my hand and the freshly crimped shite on his floor.

Disappointment courses through my veins. Boyle won’t even tolerate the mere presence of a lower-class labourer within six feet of him. We’ve barely been introduced, and he’s already launched a potty-mouthed stream of abuse at me. As I leap out of the window and disappear into the bushes, I reflect that this so-called ‘liberal’ so-called ‘comedian’ likes to pose as a socially conscious do-gooder – but his behaviour is just as disrespectful as the politicians he criticises. Not that theirs was disrespectful.

Boyle made his name cracking edgy jokes on shit panel show ‘Mock the Week’. But apparently this selfrighteous stand-up also likes to ‘Mock the Low-Paid Workers’.