|Aim for the wart.|
Thanks to Einstein, Galileo and assorted other clever people with the perfect pens-to-social-skills ratio, you can measure pretty much anything these days: energy, volume, mass. You can even measure your penis, if you want. But the one that baffles science even to this day is "how to measure a twat?"
Well, the answer has been staring us in the face ever since we didn't notice it in the background of Beverly Hills Cop. Yes, from here on in, the ‘Berkoff’ will be the standard unit by which all further twats will be measured. The archetype. The paradigm. Having done much the same thing with George Galloway and turds a few years back, you should, by now, be very familiar with the drill.
Not content with being ‘that shouty cunt with the wart in the middle of his forehead’, the very quintessence of cinematic forgettability, Berkoff, despite all signs pointing to the contrary, also fancies himself as a playwright, a linguistonaut, the heir to Franz Kafka’s throne of Impenetrable Self-indulgent Horsehit. But sadly, where Kafka comes off as a bit pretentious, a gibberish-spouting navel-gazer, Berkoff is just a bell-end. Plain and simple. No complexities, no angst, just an extremely punchable BTEC Performing Arts student who’s been indulged too much and kneecapped too little.
Firstly, he pretends for a living. There’s a big red flag for you.
Secondly, he writes, too. For the stage. And anyone who writes ‘for the stage’ should be raped by a pack of stray dogs on one. Plays are always too concerned with allegory and actors ‘fulfilling their movement potential’ to amount to anything other than time wasted.
Thirdly, he’s a fucking theatre director. And in case you don't know what one of those is, imagine a pair of half-moon glasses draped over a more self-important version of your ball-bag. Yaffling great humour-vacuums, they are. But somehow they ended up in charge. Put a cretin in the cockpit of a bullet train and pretty soon you’ll have limbs, luggage and burning steel strewn across a cow field. Put a fat, pompous, corduroy-clad goitre in charge of the entertainment and quicker than you can say “Clapham Junction rail crash” you’ll have 3 hours worth of reasons to pray for absolute and instantaneous human extinction.
And finally, just say those three things again: actor, playwright, director. Can you imagine being trapped in a lift with one? I’d rather be trapped in the mind of Justin Beiber. Giving an actor a typewriter, encouraging him to present a script of personal resonance then allowing him to fulfil his delusional directorial pretensions is an evil that can only be equated with paedophilia. Yes, paedophilia. I’m equating Steven Berkoff’s artless finger-farting with the ritual buggery of toddlers. If anything it’s worse. See for yourself (for research purposes, obviously). You wouldn’t find a higher concentration of spotlit bollocks if you spent a fortnight on the dancefloor at GAY. As for this stinking rope of conceited cock-snot, I can genuinely say, hand on heart, I’ve seen harvest festival assemblies infused with more profundity.
“Writing is an antidote for loneliness,” is it, Steven? Well, if a social life really is all it’ll take to keep you away from the Underwood I’ll gladly put ever penny I have towards hiring you some fucking friends.