DANNY DYER REVIEWS ‘CAMERON: THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY’
As told to Matt Owen
In many respects I’m what you might call a lucky geezer. I get to do what I love for a living, be it pretending to be the guvnor of a pub; hanging around with naughty geezers who like putting people’s lights out; and of course, wandering around with me hands nestled in the pockets of me Crombie, trying to look proper moody for the camera. However, every now and then something comes along to naus things right up.
I was sitting at home in me drum when I gets a phone call on the old Joanna…er, I mean dog & phone. The voice says, “Hello Daniel, luv”. It was me bleeding agent, Delilah. As it goes, I got a lot of time for Delilah – she gets me all the top banana gigs: Danny Dyer’s Hardest Shoplifters; Danny Dyer’s Hardest Librarians and The Yoga Factory. The latter one being one of me favourite projects, where I hang out with this crew of nails middle-aged women who relax the fuck out of one another every Tuesday morning by going full-on naughty Lotus.
Anyway, Delilah’s on the old dog “Daniel, we’ve got a preview copy of David Cameron’s autobiography, and someone would like you to review it for them”. I can tell you now readers, I wasn’t all that taken by the thought of having to leaf through this bellend’s book. The last book I read was Julian Dicks’ autobiography, and even though he was a complete and utter West Ham ledge, I had to put the fucker down when he started bangin’ on about playin’ golf, the mug.
Anyways, Cameron starts off the book by saying he went to school in Eton, on the Harrow Road. He went to school with a load of geezers apparently - no birds. Imagine that? Do your fuckin’ nut in. Apparently, you had your Fags and Head Boys, whatever the fuck that means. The Fags ironed the Head Boys’ newspapers, put creases in their socks and had crumpets toasted on their arses. Sounds like a cunt’s version of Scum.
He then bangs on for a couple of chapters about having a nanny. Of course, you had a nanny you muppet – we all had Nans. Take mine for instance, loved her wrestling, laughed at the dodgy parts of Til Death Us Do Us Part and was a fucking diamond. Proper family.
There’s a load of boring photos in the book, some of them in black & white, for fuck sakes. Look - there’s Dave when he was a kid dressed up like a big old tart; Dave having his trousers pulled down by Boris Johnson at posh school; Dave when he worked as Director of Corporate Affairs at Carlton TV as a result of his Mother-in-law Lady Astor putting a good word in for him after he failed his GCSEs. We all need a lucky break in life – look at me, before I was presenting Danny Dyer’s Hardest Choreographers, I was winding up contestants backstage at the Jeremy Kyle Show.
Ok, where was I? Oh yes, here’s an excerpt from Cameron’s book – this is where he talks about becoming Prime Minister. The mug.
“Being Prime Minister isn’t as much fun as you think it is! In fact, the only good thing about being PM is the fact you get a nice big house, a chauffer driven car and you get to tell Boris Johnson what to do! Only kidding Boris! Boris and I go back years! We were at school together, Oxford together - and now we work in the same building! What are the chances of that happening!?”
He leaves quite a lot out – such as being responsible for the absolute fucking state of the country, us crashing out of Europe – prick, and leaving his kid on a pub pool table. The fucking twat. Oh, if that wasn’t bad enough, the prune said he supported West Ham and Aston Villa. Make your fucking mind up you fucking plum!
Strangely enough, him making a total bollocks of the EU Referendum only warrants a single, poxy paragraph. “Woke up at 10.30am this morning – a rough night in which I only managed 9 hours sleep! Switch on the TV to find out the country has voted ‘Leave’. Oh well, dooh! Dooh! Dooh! – you can’t win them all! And with that, I switched over to the Test Match and ate my Golden Grahams.”
If the truth be told, I’d rather French kiss Jeremy Corbyn after he’d eaten a runny Vegetarian Shepherd’s Pie, than plough my way through Dave’s fuckin’ book. That’s how dogshit it is.
In fact, it nearly put me off writing me own book, but my publisher says it’s going to be a winner. Danny Dyer’s Book Of Helmets will be available in all good book shops, in time for Christmas. The thinking behind it is very simple, I list the biggest helmets in society and explain why I think they’re fucking helmets.
Here’s a sample:
“Helmet No. 5: Iain Duncan Smith is a fucking helmet because he’s a proper wrong ‘un. “ You get the idea.
Publisher reckons it’s got “legs”.