I’m kind of, sort of, a big deal right now. National TV series – tick. Plenty of wonga in the vault – yes. Acres of fanny on my tail – naturally. And I’m fucking hilarious. Sucks to be everyone else in the world right now, losers. Only joking. Ha ha!
No but seriously, I’m actually a really humble guy. It wasn’t all glitz and glamour and chillaxing with my acting agent father’s famous friends such as Judi (Dench) and Nigel – that’s Nigel Havers – as a sprog. I’m not claiming to be some pauper who grew up in a terraced house in Finsbury Park or anything, but I’ve struggled. I was punished by my parents for every peccadillo like every other little scamp out there. Listen, matey boy, I’ve had to wash dishes… in my house before. I’ve been sent out in the rain to take Roger our dachshund for walkies; I’ve gutted pheasant with my bare hands; I’ve even been frogmarched to the old fogies’ home in Piccadilly to sing Jerusalem to pensioners to bring them some Yuletide cheer – for free!
That’s not to say Jack Peter Benedict Whitehall wasn’t one hell of a rogue in his youth. Myself and Robert – Robert Pattinson, my close childhood friend – knew how to kick up a shitstorm at Tower House alright. When we heard matron coming up the corridor, we would run out of the shower, wiggle our hips and give her the willycopter. She’d sigh and say, “Oh boys, behave”, or “Oh, you are naughty” while having a right old perv. Then we would run away giggling like little schoolgirls.
These days, while Twilight’s little vampire boy is fannying about in front of tweens for trillions, one of us is slogging it out on the comedy circuit trying to make morbidly obese idiots in Wigan grunt. I’m not bitter, though. I won’t lie, I’ve hit rock bottom in the past – Waitrose ready meals in front of Grand Designs at my lowest ebb. But if even Miranda bloody Hart can make the punters hoot (and not just because she looks like a big fat lesbian) then imagine what somebody as fucking intelligent and handsome as myself can achieve?
The world is my Oyster card and I’m on a train travelling at the speed of light into comedy greatness and none of you gaylords are getting on. Except maybe Kelly Brook – who is well fit and can take a ride on my train any time she bloody likes. Definitely would (maybe I already have). Top banana, mate.
This weekly column also appears on Vice.com