“Enough snowflakes can create an avalanche!” comes the rallying cry of the disparate “Communities” drawn together under the Sun-averse parasol of Identity Politics/Social Justice Warriors (have keyboard will tantrum).
Problem with avalanches is that they tend to be triggered by the most minute of unintended consequences and rapidly obliterate anything in their path. Ladies, Gentlemen and all other gender preferences with whom he has explicitly no issues what so ever – unless, they want to have an ism-issue and cancel/shout/picket/Twitter, Instagram email-bomb him. Fair’s fair.
There is nothing more clogging in the craw than the acrid stench wafting from the Martyrs’ bonfires of vanities. Self-righteous censors of the poly-‘isms’ that upset, offend and ‘hurt’ them so much they have to have a little lie down with a scented candle and set-up a protest-blog. Leo – the Kearse of Woke, it is nothing personal; it is Everything!
The surname, Ke-arse, is an apposite segue in to his eventful Thailand travelog anecdote where, when caught-short sought relief behind a bush when suddenly – No! Let us just say he has a sure-fire porcine/toiletry recycling pitch for “The Apprentice”.
It is utterly disgusting, the product of a deranged and puerile mind and consequently pushing the limit of the audiences’ own bowel-control. By now, several have left in shell-shocked horror. Result there, Leo. Deconstructing the phrase “I assume” – I- ass, u, me, sees his dissecting panache brought to the fore. Nothing is sacred – well, not after he has finished. Fascism, fat-shaming and the riff about peculiarities of human genitalia in contrasting seasonal conditions best observes the adage – what he says on tour/stays on tour.
The material is brusque and risqué – as in a Christmas-tree thief bashfully hiding a chain-saw inside his budgie-smugglers or Hitler being given a second chance and declaring, “This time – No more Mr. Nice-guy”.
It is an act, it is meant to shock.
It is you who has to deal with laughing at it.
That fundamental, discriminatory capacity to differentiate between Kearse and, for example, a once very young Frank Skinner, compared to the prejudice-baiting likes of Bernard Manning or Roy Chubby Brown and the alt.Academy of Brexit bar-bores.
Like the loose tooth you can not stop waggling with your tongue, or the throbbing purple dome blister after hammering your finger, you just know you are going to burst – you just can not ignore Leo Kearse.
Post-gig there’s no protesters at the exit door. What a disappointment. Mind you, Henning Wehn was chatting outside so make of that what you will.
