Can the human mind conceive of two more disparate comedic performers than Frankie Boyle and Michael Palin? One, a psychotic motormouth at perma risk of being banned for some monstrous overstepping of the mark. The other, the epitome of the most underrated of middle class virtues, enthusiasm and decency. My Shit Life So Far vs Michael Palin’s second volume of Diaries, Halfway To Hollywood. Scabrous Glaswegian misanthropy vs gentle Yorkshire via Suffolk niceness. What could be clearer? Yet as ever the surface doesn’t tell the whole story.

Like lots of supposedly outre comedians Frankie Boyle’s brand of vitriol betrays a fierce moral streak. His comedy is a constant reminder for us to do better, combined with a recognition that, you know what, we probably won’t. Permanantly pushing the taste boundaries, he occupies the space where laughs jockey for position with a sharp intake of breath. It’s true that on occasion his act trips over into the merely shocking but for the most part Frankie Boyle comes across as an underpriveleged Scottish misanthrope in the vein of Gerry Sadowitz and Rab C Nesbitt. His considered and consistent world view is equal parts amusement in, and disgust of, his own background and surroundings. It might all be shite but it’s my shite. And by the way your shite is just as bad.

Michael Palin is now afforded official National Treasure status as the epitome of a decent Englishman. His Diaries do not dispel that view but are a worthy reminder that actually Michael Palin is one of the greatest writers and performers of comedy this country has ever produced. If he had done nothing else Palin would still be responsible for my favourite 30 seconds of filmed comedy (the fish slapping dance) and my favourite comedy character (Arthur Pewty) yet he wrote and starred in Monty Python, Ripping Yarns and The Missionary among many others. His is bourgeoise anarchy mixed in with clever silliness. And we haven’t even touched on Around The World In 80 Days, the vehicle that cemented his national treasure status.

This second volume of diaries picks up after the furore over Life Of Brian (funniest film ever made? I think so) and takes in a decade where although mostly spent writing movies, it seemed he might find himself being a Hollywood star, after the success of A Fish Called Wanda. If it is less frenetic than the first volume that covered the amazing creative splurge that took in Monty Python and Ripping Yarns it is a just as interesting insight into the creative mind. It’s more of a mid-life crisis book but for all that Michael Palin really does seem as decent as his public persona. He is beset by doubt and he is commited to his creative urge – but not at the expense of becoming a twat.

In comparison, for all Frankie Boyle’s bluster and invective his is still a deeply conservative act and funny as he is, I wouldn’t perhaps be expecting anything more from him than we have already seen. Palin on the other hand is a gently subversive talent that can, and has, moved in a myriad of directions. He may now be in his creative dotage – plenty of time for a resurgence – but in many ways his has been the perfect career for liberal bourgeoise everywhere and although Palin is cut from a different cloth than other greats such as Peter Cook, Michael Palin is undoubtedly one of the Great Englishmen of Our Time.

Disparate talents then but My Shit Life So Far and Halfway To Hollywood are both recommended.

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