Munters, Misandrists and the Middle-Class Daddy Issues of Death

How the Yorkshire Comedy Scene Became a Rape Crisis Centre

I watched in horror as comedy smouldered in the distance. The flickering orange hue can only possibly spell one thing—the bastards are burning witches again. There are no two ways about it. I had to get as far away from this atrocity as possible. The crazy is catching. Feet—don’t fail me now.

If you were to arrive on the Yorkshire comedy scene today, you would be led to believe that you were in the midst of an unprecedented rape epidemic. You would be bombarded with the collective belief that sexual predators prowl the scene like hungry jackals, foaming at the mouth, desperate to grab someone by the cervix.

They’re in the walls, they’re under the floorboards. When you’re a comedian in Yorkshire, you are never more than ten feet away from a rapist.

It’s all anyone talks about—those dastardly “wrong ’uns”.

The entire comedy faculty thrust themselves into the compulsion of rooting them out in a discombobulating game of Find The Rapist.

It’s as if they’ve hidden deviants around the garden in some perverse Easter egg hunt. If you find one, you win lots of gigs and the highly coveted victim status trophy. With this juicy incentive thrown into the air—rank and file play along.

No man can afford not to be seen espousing the importance of keeping women safe. This is for fear that he won’t be booked or, worse still, find himself ritually sacrificed upon the altar of female infallibility. This performative ballet runs seven days a week with a special matinee on Sundays.

So who are these wrong ’uns? What have they done? To read the comment sections, you’d think that Genghis Khan rode into a gig, played an underwhelming middle section, and thrust his stiffy up some girl’s nose.

The accused are predominantly white men, usually doing well on their run of the greasy comedy ladder. In most cases, they’ve made lukewarm advances toward a female party who has taken umbrage, then decided to run a crusade of defamation in an attempt to ruin his life and raise her status in doing so.

A claim is made, and the blood enters the water. At first, a nervous silence fills the forums as the plotters take to their covens. Soon, the feeding frenzy ensues. A kangaroo court of bloodthirsty, sanctimonious sociopaths begins to run their vexatious smear campaigns as other men look on in horror; the sport deteriorating into a mindless, unrelenting character assassination.

How did we even get here? Where did the fucking comedy go?

Once upon a time, lockdown shat us out like a ginger stepchild with palsy. It quickly became clear that people were not in their right minds.

An authoritarian madness began to riot upon the earth, disguised as altruism. Men in dresses crawled out of shadowy isolation to discombobulating applause. Emboldened by their newfound popularity, they inundate women with explicit threats of rape and murder for having the audacity to disagree with the ridiculous statement that women can have a penis.

Ignoring the fact that the same white men are disproportionately far more likely to kill themselves than any other. White men in shit jobs were suddenly accused of abusing a power and privilege not enjoyed by men elsewhere on the Dulux colour chart.

Meanwhile, in the middle class, the desecration of masculinity commenced. Cheered on by personality disorders with tits, under a brand of feminism only embraced by the criminally insane.

To these desperately posh, intersectional lunatics, only a feminised man can be a good man. To cultivate this thinking, they invented words like heteronormativity to best harbour their middle-class daddy issues and to win games of Scrabble.

This bizarre ideology soon got passed around the universities like gonorrhoea and found its way onto TikTok, where it trickled down and was fostered by poor, twitchy-eyed, young women on Prozac.

The hashtag #DeadMenDontRape suddenly screamed across social media platforms, accelerating purges of psychopathy not seen since Jim Jones was a cocktail waiter.

In this wake of madness, the comedy circuit degenerated into a Lord of the Flies dystopian nightmare. Male comedians found themselves tiptoeing around female comics, never knowing when one might go off like a histrionic car alarm.

Yorkshire’s comedy scene is made up of hundreds of events, usually organised by comedians so that they, in turn, will be booked onto someone else’s gig in a perpetual circle jerk of sycophancy. This nauseatingly disingenuous ritual repeats endlessly in a cloud of Tinder jokes and autism, until someone tragically ends up on the BBC.

The comedy scene in Yorkshire is unlike any other in the country. It’s like a terrorist training camp for woke fundamentalists. This is, in no small part, due to a handful of gatekeepers dug into the undergrowth like the Viet Cong.

Gatekeepers are invariably middle-aged, white men who rattle against the patriarchy from their pulpits and place themselves front and centre as witchfinder generals. Shepherding the naïve into their trust, while encouraging men to police one another and flagellate themselves to purge away their wicked, toxic masculinity.

Several exhausting years later, here we find ourselves.

Men continue to be emasculated, told that they’re rapists, then commanded to show women respect—believe all women, however insubstantial the claim. You’re an ally, or you’re a deviant. Question the narrative, and you’ll soon find an angry mob at your door clutching pitchforks. This despotic cultural revolution is presented to us as progress.

In Yorkshire, everyone expects the Spanish Inquisition.

It’s little wonder that it is driving people fucking mental. Take, for instance, the recent case of a comedian who performed under the not entirely unironic name of Alan Fiddler. At the beginning of July, Fiddler posted the following statement on Facebook.

Omission of the facts certainly casts an ominous shadow over this confession. We can only assume the worst. What on earth prompted his own cancellation? How many bodies are buried under this man’s patio?

Well—shortly following this statement, Fiddler began to message every gig organiser in Yorkshire with further clarity as to his heinous offence.

#Footgate rocked the entire Yorkshire comedy.

All the bastards came out to play. Screaming in tongues, they tore at his gizzards like vultures and ran around a bonfire clutching his skull. Their saggy tits flapping in the wind.

Personally, I don’t know Alan Fiddler. I’ve never met him. But clearly, he’s a silly cunt. And yet—for failing to procure pictures of a woman’s manky feet, Fiddler was shunned, condemned, and cast into exile when nobody suffered so much as a verruca.

What the fuck is happening to men’s minds? What possessed this man to write a statement that made him sound like he was killing sex workers and wearing their skin?

One can’t help but look on in horror. Careers annihilated, families torn asunder, and men pushed to the brink of suicide in a typhoon of psychopathic outrage sparked by ambiguous claims that women were made to feel uncomfortable.

What constitutes uncomfortable, anyway? Bloody anything, apparently. You don’t even have to slip anyone a finger anymore; you can just tell a misogynistic joke that renders a woman insensible with fear. Not to mention the crippling, traumatic, life-shattering effects of the male gaze. Someone looked at me funny once, and I didn’t leave the house for a year.

Used to be that all you had to do at gigs was be polite and keep your hands to yourself. Which isn’t a big ask in the Yorkshire comedy scene. Don’t get me wrong—I like a fat, purple-haired, bog-eyed tart as much as the next crackhead, but with pronouns like that, it would be a dreadful waste of chloroform.

But who knows? Maybe the scene really is full of Ted Bundy copycats. Maybe female comedians are constantly being bundled into boots of cars, and I’ve simply been too drunk to notice. I have to admit, if I was a sexual deviant on the prowl for vulnerable people, I certainly wouldn’t choose somewhere ridiculous like a school or a hospital. I’d start a stand-up comedy career and stare at women’s knockers.

Let’s be honest. This was never about making anyone feel safe, was it? The Yorkshire comedy scene has no actual interest in safety. Any mention of grooming gangs or the fellas in the women’s bog picking thongs out of their hairy arse-crack risks the sort of response you would expect if they caught you shagging their dog.

It’s a power grab for Machiavellian narcissists to deflect from their own behaviour.

In the spirit of this, gatekeepers have decided to get in their ice cream van full of puppies and Rohypnol in order to discuss keeping women safe during a rapey, emergency COBRA meeting.

Nothing quite says smash the patriarchy like a room full of straight, white, middle-aged men dictating what’s best for women, does it?

Wherever there’s a marginalised community in danger, the gatekeepers will answer the call. Riding a hyperbolic wave of virtue—standing upright atop a two-hundred-pound feminist, like some histrionic, autistic dolphin—using her matted back hair to steer the beast into an inclusive utopia that would make Michael Jackson sick.

I’ve been at odds with the comedy scene since I nominated myself as Best Female Comedian at the Yorkshire Comedy Awards and awarded myself the trophy in 2023.

The awards are held every year so that the Wokerati can blow smoke up each other’s arses in a demonstration of corruption that would shame a banana republic.

Nominations are made by organisers, voted on by comedians, and counted by their friends. The lack of a public vote at the Yorkshire Comedy Awards is indicative of one fact that renders comedy in Yorkshire entirely redundant. These comedians aren’t playing to a crowd at all. They’re playing to each other.

The only victim in Yorkshire is comedy. Without meritocracy, the quality of comedy here would shame a Christmas cracker. What with all the sermonising and sanctimonious people-pleasing, the bar on what is funny has been lowered so far that a quadriplegic midget couldn’t limbo under it.

There’s no choice anymore but to get as far away from it as possible. I’ve attempted to distance myself from it numerous times. But no matter how much I wash my clothes, I can still smell it.

I’m going to have to block everyone on social media to prevent all the insufferable virtue and odious compassion that brings me out in a rash. Everything and everyone that reminds me of this sordid time in my life. Then I’ll probably have to move to California and milk fentanyl cows.

I can stay up nights, making obscene content and expressing myself free from that suffocating community and their perverse obsession with safety. At last—far from the sort of people who scream solidarity when they cum.

I can sit out on my porch, cradling my shotgun, looking out into the night and wait for familiar glow of mental illness on the horizon and I’ll smile knowing I’m out.

There’s no comedy scene in Yorkshire anymore. Only a Netflix true crime documentary waiting to happen.

One day, something truly seismic is going to come out of this slagheap. Something genuinely diabolical. Horrors you can scarcely imagine. Unthinkable crimes committed by the ones who were screaming sanctuary the loudest. Anyone could be a victim. It could be someone you know. Someone close. Or even you.

You were promised safety. So why would you question the fizzing foam in your Kool-Aid? You’ll take a little nap, and as you drift in and out of consciousness, you’ll smell Vaseline and Spam. The last thing you’ll hear is the flies buzzing around your gaping sphincter—stretched out in the sun like a burnt-out wheelie bin.

Then you'll finally realise.

In the end - you only had yourself to blame.

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