Some good news. Hopefully from Monday 27th April you will be able to listen to a sketch show podcast that Chris Stokes and I will have completed comprising Boycott Deathtrap sketches we have done.
If you're familiar with our work, I'm sure you'll be thrilled to hear that it contains some brand new material - a good sign of things to come!
I also now provide a headshot service and with results like this (left) you can't possibly be missed by potential agents and directors.
Gentle readers,
You will notice to the right is a new gadget I have added to make the job of the British Blogspot Expeditionary Force a wee bit easier. The images scroll from one blog to the next. Click upon them and you will be transported.
You can try it too! Find an image that sparks your interest and click away. Feel free to construct your own BBEF report on what you find. Remember to sneer.
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
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 1st millennium gods).
CURRENT RULER: Ahiram, Phoencian King of
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.
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.
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!
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.
