I'm A Martyr, Get Me Crucified!

Ok, so here’s the pitch:

 

We take twelve celebrities with some sort of chip on their shoulder about something. Ideally, they’ll be z-list celebrities that everybody’s forgotten about who are desperate to be remembered for something more worthwhile than, for example, ‘Finders, Keepers’ and ‘Fun House’. Actually, Pat Sharpe and Neil Buchanana would be perfect contenders!

 

Then – it gets better! They’ll be competing against different classical civilisations to be martyred. These civilisations will be built in suitably unpopulated locations like Shetland and Guernsey, as true to history as we can. They’ll then be populated by historians and actors who have read up on the background of their particular society. The contenders will then go about, stirring up trouble in the name of their preferred raison d’etre. We can even get top celebs as special guests to play famous figures from history. So, let’s take our budding CITV presenters as a simulated example.

 

CONTENDER:   Pat Sharpe

MORAL STANCE:          Tepid

SOAP BOX TOPIC:        “We should give more money to endangered butterflies.”

CLASSICAL CIVILISATION HE’S UP AGAINST:   Phoenicians.

THEIR BEEF IS:            “We fackin’ hate them fackin’ butterflies!”

THEIR PREFERRED METHOD OF EXECUTION:              Offering the victim as a sexual vessel for the sea-beasts of Dagon (one of their attested 1^st millennium gods).

CURRENT RULER:        Ahiram, Phoencian King of Byblos (to be played by Richard O’Brien).

 

 

CONTENDER:   Neil Buchanana

MORAL STANCE:          Vehement

SOAP BOX TOPIC:        “We should enslave little ethnic kids.”

CLASSICAL CIVILISATION HE’S UP AGAINST:   The Achaemenid Persian Empire.

THEIR BEEF IS:            Zoroastrianism (their state religion) forbids slavery.

THEIR PREFERRED METHOD OF EXECUTION:             Split your nutsack open and watch you bleed to death.

CURRENT RULER:        Emperor Cyrus II The Great (to be played by Jasper Carrot)

 

 

I’ve no doubt you’re all as excited about this as I am. I suggest you get scribbling to the Beeb and Channel 4 AT ONCE and lobby them to pick up this innovative and exceptionally educational show.

 

Thank you.

Martin: A gaseous boy

There was a boy called Martin
Whose skills were high in fartin'
He would fart out rhymes
With limerick chimes
But they would always end up being disappointingly unlimerickesque at the end.

This Easter

Easter is a time for many things. Mostly chocolate but, also, relaxation. This Easter in particular, I'm relaxing more than ever. The effects on my complexion, health and mental wellbeing can be readily seen.

Needless to say, I'm feeling proper tip top at the moment. My sleeping patterns have dramatically changed, somewhat to my detriment and I have this insatiable thirst that - no matter how much Tropicana I down - I simply cannot quench.

Apart from that, I'm pretty damn fine actually. I shall be spending the time away from work travelling, seeing friends and writing this damn play. Every written thing, it seems, is a joy and a burden.

I also intend to keep blogging more often.

I intend to but, of course, I won't.

Time to start burning some books

I ambled through WH Smiths today. Bear in mind there is a recession on.

In these economically critical times, we surely need to be economical. With food, with fuel and, I would say, with paper. And time. And public interest.

Therefore I cannot, under any circumstances, tolerate a biography of the Archibishop of Canterbury gracing our shelves in favour of something worthwhile. Nobody gives a cocking shit about what he's done in his boring life. I'll tell you the big twist. I shall. I shall tell you the surprise ending. The big exciting finale. You know what it is? He becomes the Archbishop of Canterbury. That's it. That's it! THAT IS IT!

NOBODY CARES!

The sheer hypocrisy of the Church to call for traditional values and then have their leader, their shepherd, pouting his lips on the front cover of a book that's on the same shelf as the Jade Goody Story and Look At Me: I'm That Telly Chef Who Swears All The Time And Now I Advertise Gin Because My Ratings Fell Through The Floor Because Every Cookery Program I Do Has To Rely Not Upon Whether Or Not People Want To Cook My Recipes At Home But Rather To See How Angry I Get In The Course Of Half An Hour.

This is the most vulgar and sweaty modern bastion of charlatanism.

When I thought I could not be incensed further, I noticed the categorisation. They had put Rowan's Rule in with the Bible, Koran and Torah. Also in there was an advice guide to clergy who have to talk to homosexuals. It had a list in it describing the different homosexualities you can get. According to the Anglican Church ANY VIOLENT ACT CONSTITUTES HOMOSEXUALITY. What? What the fuck? No. No that's wrong. That's offensive to homosexuals who are, on the whole in my experience, very mild people and also offensive to violent homophobes who pride themselves on their ability to avert accusations of homosexuality with their ability to hit people.

And then, oh then, the icing on the cake of contempt: I could not find a poetry/plays section in WH Smith - no - but I COULD find a "Tragic True Life Stories" section. This is all those books about kids who maybe got smacked once and then wrote the most preposterous lies about their parents feeding them bleach and putting them in kennels so they can make some money off the morons who buy this drivel. This means that according to WH Smith's standards (and the leisure pound of the average British citizen) these flimsy stories are of more worth than Shakespeare, Wordsworth, Coleridge, Miller, Pinter, Tennessee Williams, Milton, Marlowe, et al.

Obviously they are not. Obviously WH Smith's are wrong.

I will endeavour to prove it to them. Post-haste!

The Ballad of Mary Morebroom

He was wanted in the Board Room

And that was all he knew

And so he arrived most promptly

At twenty-four minutes to two.

 

He strode up to the receptionist

(A woman with slight breasts)

Who shook her earringed head and said

"I'm sorry - first there's tests."

 

She grabbed the small man by the throat

And squeezed till he turned blue

And then she grabbed him by the scrote

And checked for one and two.

 

Sure enough he was replete

With testes by the score

For then she counted three, then six

And more and more and more

 

"Thirty-seven balls in all!"

The beaming man did holler

And kissed the woman on the lips

Which made her full of choler

 

For those lips were not upon her face

They were between her legs

Her thrush-battered vag is what he tastes

Plus the residue in her kegs.

 

Alas, the small man never found

His way into the Board Room

Instead the meeting was foregone

For the moists of Mary Morebroom

 

But Mary Morebroom was enraged

She tried to punish what he did

But failed to grab his arm, you see,

For the small man was a flid.

Listen 'Ear: The Chris Stokes Biography (Chapter One)

Chapter One:

Massive Ears

Christopher Stokes was born, in a hospital, with massive ears. His parents, Gary and 'Scrabble' Jan Stokes were offered a great deal of money for the film rights, but turned them down.

Christopher grew, with exception to his ears, which remained at the adult size (of an African Elephant) throughout his life. They were massive.

One of Stokes' early talents was self-depreciation, spreading the cost of his asset across the span of several years. This brought much humour to the playground and classroom, as Stokes would lampoon himself, flapping his ears, soaring up to twelve metres in the air and, ultimately, earning him the nickname 'Jodrell Bank'.

A lonesome child, Stokes spent much of his prepubescent youth in the company of a small weevil he nicknamed 'Dave'. The weevil grew, feeding off Stokes' playground success, and eventually devolved into David Harper.

For some years, they were the best of friends, out of necessity rather than choice. Stokes led an otherwise solitary existence near the A5.

Until one day...

His sister was born from the same womb by the same seed yet turned out wrong. It would be many years before the unnatural nature of the spawn was realised but this Satanic creature brought with her the opportunity that would give Christopher Stokes a real backbone. An opportunity to acquaint themselves with possibly the most important man in the history of the 20th and 21st Centuries respectively.

Dominic John Allen befriended the sister of Stokes and in so doing befriended Stokes himself. It was to be a friendship based on mutual distrust, repudiation and despair. But it was much better than having to talk to the weevil.

It was at this point in his life that Christopher fell in love. He fell in love with a small pebble, which he named 'Pebble'. She was glamorous, for sure, but she was a pebble.

Sex was torrid. Threading a pebble into the glans of his penis and subsequently removing it again was an agony that Christopher endured out of love. A sort of stupid, misplaced love that only someone of such collosal ignorance could be capable of.

With the development of his sexual organs, and the transition through puberty, Christopher became aware of his own worthlessness. He turned to drink. In one day, he could consume over twenty-seven litres of pomegranate juice or Dr. Pepper (tm). His early flourishing in the field of Scrabble (tm) was cut ruthlessly short by the efforts of his competitive mother: five time gold heavyweight Scrabble (tm) black belt shogun, the aptly named 'Scrabble Jan'.

Christopher began to despair that he would never find his true calling in life. His other friends had found them oh so well. Allen was the darling of church group theatre, Harper had found his place in the fast food industry. Stokes, it seemed, was doomed to a life of pebble aided masturbation and over consumption.

But all that was about to change...

[Stay tuned for Chapter 2]

Chris Stokes: Liar?

The answer, I'm afraid, is yes.

With the election of Barack Obama in the US and Gok Wan coming out in support of an X Factor contestant, the media's eyes have been conveniently pointed away from Mr. Stokes, comedian, as he commits one of the most grievous atrocities yours truly has ever had the stomach to witness.

If you look at his blog here (http://chrisstokes.blogspot.com) you will note his every-day-in-November challenge. A noble quest, me thoughtst, given I can barely manage to blog once a month but oh no no ha ha brew ha no. The woolen veil of deceit has been pulled over your eyes and now you stumble around as he guffaws in his lie-encrusted shadows.

He has set up his blog to post things on a time release! They have already been written. All his thoughts, pre-conceived. He even anticipated the US election results! He's a conniving little pig of a man. A liar. A thief. A cheat.

I urge you to bombard him with e-abuse.

The turd.