There is no god and I am proof.

Thursday, 29 April 2010

Let's Get Political

So Gordon Brown done a silly thing. He was still attached to his microphone and he called a woman who said there were too many eastern europeans a bigot. AND SO I SHALL EXTRAPOLATE WILDY in this shorter than usual post.

The Debate
Usual set-up.

Gordon Brown: Allow me to reiterate the fact the Mr Cameron's immigration policy will not work.

Davey: Oh, am I a bigot? Are you going to call me a bigot now?

McBroon: No I-

Davey: Ladies and gentlemen, this man hates all voters and I have proof.

Clegg: Look at them arguing. It's fucking pathetic.

Cameron: Here is the proof! It's a drawing I did of Brown sitting in a chair and I drew in his thoughts.

Closeup on the picture when David Cameron pulls it out of his pocket. It is Brown thinking about stabbing people.

Dave: This man here in the blue shirt [he points to the picture] looks very similar to that guy in the blue shirt [points into the audience].

Clegg: Are you fucking joking?

Everyone votes for Clegg and then we get a good country.

That's sort of a best case scenario. Anyway I might update again later today.

Wednesday, 28 April 2010


So I had this idea while lying in bed, THREE FUCKING DAYS AGO. God, I hate myself for how long it takes me to have an idea and then write it. I have literally nothing else that I am proud of in my life so why do I neglect this?

Anyway this next one is about pills. I sure hope Fenghar doesn't get any ideas.

A Pill Within
An advert for a pill. Visuals follow what the voiceover says

Woman: Do you work with fish or are a surgeon?

Man: Tired of constantly throwing up because your job is disgusting?

Woman: What you need is Nodisgusta, a pill that destroys the part of your brain that creates disgust for up to 12 hours! Possible side effects include a small blue spot on the left hand and insanity.

Man: Order now, and say goodbye to malpractice suits for getting vomit in someone's liver.

A bar. Some creepy men look at a woman.

Creep1: Why hello there.

Creep2: Uhhh, you're creepy.

Creep1: Hey look, that broad has a blue spot on her left hand.

Creep2: Dude, go for it.

Creep1: I totally am. [approaches woman] Are you a virgin?

Woman: Oh my! How candid of you.

Creep1: Let's go do it.

Woman: Woooh!

At the creep's apartment, he is ploughing into the woman like nobody's business. A close-up of her hand as we see the blue spot disappear.

Woman: Uh uh uh uh uh ah AHHHHHHHHHHH

Creep1: [He is in full tribal make-up] What's wrong?

Woman throws up everywhere.

Creep1: Maybe I should just act normal.

Enter Creep2.

Creep2: No! Don't betray who you are!

They hi-5.

So a hard-hitting script about the dangers of pills. But one of our number already knows all about the dangers of pills, don't they?


Has enough time elapsed for it to be funny yet? Ah fuck it he'll never know. I don't even think he reads beyond the first line.


Tuesday, 27 April 2010

Komedy Klassics

Here's one from when the 'rents would drag me to church and I would sit at the bag and draw people as naked women and occasionally write scripts and draw t-shirt designs. This one was originally written in black felt tip.

Geoff: Why hello there!

Trev: I guess?

Geoff: Yes.

Trev: What?

Geoff: Hello!

Trev: Could you....stop?

Geoff: No!

Woman walks by.

Geoff: Hello!

Sharon: Why?

Geoff: I work for the Make a Wish Foundation.

Trev: And someone wished there would be an obnoxious man shouting pleasantries at people?

Geoff: Yes! Hello to you! [Geoff slaps Trev]

Enter Simon. Simon is a young boy who is pathetic and I bet when he is away from this script he irritates his brother by FUCKING SINGING all the time and making rude comments and gahhh what a FUCKING DICK.

Simon: Hello Geoff.

Geoff: Aren't you dying? I have to be a dick because you're dying.

Simon: I'm not dying. Perhaps somebody else is?

Trev: So you're just a dick?

Geoff: No, no. He's dying. I saw him in hospital.

Simon: Did you?

Geoff: I...I thought I did. But if you're alive, maybe I'm insane.

Simon: Quite.

Trev: Wanna bum?

Geoff: Yeahhhhhhh

The Who plays.

So there we go, some klassic komedy for anyone who loves that kind of ting, mon.

Sunday, 25 April 2010

Ain't nothing crazy 'bout me

So, two updates in one day. What am I? Crazy?

No, just disappointed enough in the first one to do another one, but not disappointed enough to take that one off.


The Letter
We join our heroes in the kitchen.

Ted: I just got this letter in the post.

Gillian: Yeah, me too. With the blue stripe?

Francis: Blue stripe? Yeah, that sounds like a letter I got as well.

Ted: Mine just said that I was a "Category T".

Gillian: Yeah, I'm a Category T.

Francis: I'm a Category F.

Ted: Well we won't treat you any different.

Gillian: Of course not.

Ted: [joking] You dirty Category F!

Francis: Ha.

Ted: Ha.

Later. Ted and Gillian are meeting alone.

Ted: I think Francis should move out.

Gillian: Agreed. She's being horrible to me. I can't connect to her. You know, emotionally.

Ted: That is how you women connect to each other.

Gillian: Why don't you like her?

Ted: She leaves the toilet seat half-way up. Like in between. So I can't see it because it's side-on.

Gillian: Yeah?

Ted: And then I get impaled on it.

Gillian: How are we going to tell her to leave?

Ted: Those letters we got this morning? She was a Category F.

Gillian: I see...maybe they can't live with "Category T"s?

Ted: We could put an advert on TV.

Gillian: Nice!

Meanwhile a boardroom meeting.

Mr. Glen: How is the ad campaign going?

Hulio: We sent out a bunch of letters saying that people were Category T or F.

Mr. Glen: So...

Hulio: Basically, they will have to buy different gums. People love being part of a gang.

Mr. Glen: Brilliant!

Another household

Fred: But, why do I have to leave?

George: Didn't you see the advert? It's illegal for you to stay here. You're a Category F.

Fred: This isn't fair.

George: It's for the best.


Newsreader: Riots in central London between Category Ts and Fs. The government launched an investigation into who started this shi-

Channel Announcer: We apologise for the language used in the preceding program. But what do you expect from a dirty Category F.


Mr. Glen: Was this our idea?

Hulio: I'll say it was Ben.

Mr. Glen: Who's Ben?

Hulio winks.

Mr. Glen: Is this the same Ben who raped that girl?

Hulio winks.

Mr. Glen: The same Ben as broke into my house?

Hulio: You should take this up with Ben.

Enter Ben.

Ben: Hey.

So there we go, some hilarious comedy there. Perhaps it was long-winded. Perhaps it works better as a story to be told.

Perhaps, just perhaps we need to trust our instincts and fuck my inside knee hurts.
Like really hurts.


It IS intentional, shut up

Well it looks like the lengths of time I am spending away from this blog are getting shorter. Used to be there'd be months between bouts of updating, but I only took a break of what, a week? It's shorter than a year I'll say that much.

Anyway, the following piece is intentionally awful, to show you what you COULD be getting if I was some stupid guy who's stupid (Have we started already? NO SHUT UP)

The days are short and the nights are cold on Arlax 5. Everyone has three arms and a fin on their back due to evolution and because it's the style of the time. The third arms don't really work and the fins are edible. I mean they don't taste very nice but still.

Vergt: The space plague is eating my crop of wheot. (That's like wheat, but on Arlax 5 they call it wheot). What am I going to do?

Rwell: I suggest we call in the GyerkHark, the United Planet's only saviour!

Vergt: YES

[They do so]

GyerkHark: What is the problem?

Vergt: My wheat is being destroyed.

GyerkHark: What is wheat?

Vergt: Sorry I meant wheot.

GyerkHark: Yes. I will investigate.

Vergt: Don't take too long Gary, my mum says I have to go home at the end of this.

GyerkHark: Joooeeeel!

Rwell: Why don't I have anything to say in this script?

Gary: Because, Steven, remember when you broke that thing? (Writer's note. I got bored of writing this script here. Could not think of a way to make it funny. Will continue in the hopes I do.) Well it was my alien mother's.

Joel: Aliens don't exist.

Gary: Maybe not on this planet.

Joel: Nobody thinks aliens exist on this planet.

Steven: Because they're not aliens.

Gary: Maybe -

Steven: Maybe what? Maybe not on this planet?

Gary: Maybe not on this planet.

Joel: Are we just...? Because I decided I'm not retarded.

Police: Joel Herkins you're under arrest for hatecrimes!

Joel: What'd I do?

Police: You said retarded.

Gary: You just said retarded.

Police: That's different.

Steven: How?

Police: The Police do hatecrimes all the time.


So there we go, this whole "intentionally awful" shit was all a ploy to get my true message across about police brutality. As you have no doubt inferred, this script was not awful.


No wait, I have a joke. What starts with R and was a hit by the Police? Rodney King.
Thanks, Ladies and Gentleman. I've been John and you've been had.

Wednesday, 21 April 2010

Sleeve Cape

Alright you guys listen, I just got back from my run (hey this story again nice; such variety; I love it when he goes on about his run - Just a sample of the many emails I get when I talk about my run.) and I had an idea for a new garment. Like a new kind of clothe. Like trousers and waistcoats and skirts are types of garment. Well get ready for this one.

Imagine if you will a jacket, with straps on the inside, to attach to your shirt. Now, you attach these straps, sort of braces-like clamps, and suddenly you don't have to wear the sleeves or anything. You've got a kind of coat-shaped cape. Now you could make the coat part whatever, like have whatever design. And the best part is you can convert probably anything into a sleeve-cape.
So anyway, that's what's going to be big in twenty 'leven.

And now, after presenting my fantastinating idea, I will give you a script for your patience.

Margaret and the Miners
For this to work you need to accept two presumptions. Margaret Thatcher is prime minister again and adamantium is a thing.
We join the action in the office of No 10.

Official: So, we've got the results of the satellite scan here. It shows a large patch of adamantium ore, here. Where all the miners live.

Thatcher: How will we extract this ore? This natural resource?

Official: I was going to get the miners to do it. Should I...should I do that?

Thatcher: No. No I've got a much better idea.


Newsreader: The government today announced their new program to extract the valuable adamantium ore from North Yorkshire and Newcastle. All roads in Britain will be adapted so that they draw power from the cars that run on them. An official compared this plan to "A treadmill for cars" and said that it would make our cars healthier, although it will take twice as long to get anywhere.

Newsreader: Miners have expressed outrage at this plan. We go live to their press conference.


Miner: C'mon. Let us mine the ore.

Thatcher: No.

See there was satire. But man I am just too excited about the sleeve-cape. Seriously, I am thinking about making some prototypes.

Goodnight, god bless.

Tuesday, 20 April 2010


This next sketch came to me in a dream JUST KIDDING it came to when I was doing my evening run just like most of 'em do.
Y'all know I don't like writing my dreams down 'case they come real.

Getting Ahead
The scene is a New York Apartment. A man leans out of the window with his camera, and takes a photo. The camera has a long lens on it. The man's name is Tim.

Tim: That's was a good one.

Interviewer: [unseen] Who was it?

Tim: I didn't know them. Just felt right.

Interviewer: How?

Tim: Well sometimes it's because of their hair colour or their clothes, but this one I think it was a combination of all these things.

Interviewer: Is this one going in the special room?

Tim: [He looks away] It's too early to tell.

Night Time
Tim gets out of bed. And approaches the pottery wheel.

Tim: I do most of the work at night, the electric is cheaper.

He takes out a printed photo.

Tim: This is the one from earlier. Can you see the bone structure? It's pretty neat.

Later, we see Tim putting the finishing touches on a statue of a head. It is the one from the photo.

Interviewer: Wow.

Tim: Yeah, she's a pretty one. Prettiest this quarter I reckon. Maybe of the fiscal year.

Interviewer: So...

Tim: I usually get first goes. Then I sell them.

Interviewer: How much do they-

Tim: About 68 dollars.

Interviewer: And how many do you-

Tim: Probably 5 a week?

Interviewer: Do you ever worry that one day you'll just lose the talent?

Tim: Well talents only go away if you don't use them.

Interviewer: K. Could I...could I purchase this one?

Tim: 70 dollars.

Interviewer: I'll give you 90 if I get to go on her first.

Tim: That's...that's a tough...

Interviewer: I'm sorry, it was presumptuous.

Tim: 70 will be fine.


The interviewer is putting wigs on the head. He is a flamboyant man.

Interviewer: Why, you look just darling!

Enter Tim.

Interviewer: I love playing with it.

Tim: What?

Interviewer: I

Tim: You're supposed to have sex with it!

He punches the interviewer in the face!

Extreme! But seriously, this is what you get if you watch Napoleon Dynamite before you write. You end up with this mental shit that I'm pretty sure I'm going to look back on with scorn.

Didn't even mention pepsi.

Sad Men

Today I got to spend 3 hours at school waiting for a lesson that never happened. Those 3 hours were also part of a lesson that never happened. So while waiting I did some homework and wrote this bitching scriptes, bizzybizzy lone.

Man: It is the dark where I live, and the dark I send you.
He pulls out a knife and stabs everyone in the supermarket where this is set. He begins furiously masturbating over the dead bodies.

Projector closes and Sam steps in front of the projector. It is a room of ad execs.

Ben: How does this sell pepsi?

Sam: I'm not sure you understand. This came to me in a dream!

Ben: Yes but-

Sam: A dream!

Ben: Well...can we see the posters?

Sam: Sure!

The posters of pictures of the ad execs sleeping.

Ben: Is that me? Greg. [He shoves the person next to him] Greg, I think that's you, there.

Greg: I like it.

Ben: Greg, you can see your penis!

[Cut to shot of Greg's penis. An UNCOMFORTABLY long shot.]

Sam: It's to show YOUR dreams. [points at the execs]

Ben: We need to vote on this.

[Voting. It is Ben's turn]

Ben: I'm going to vote tactically and say yes.

Sam: [counting up votes] That's six yesses and one no.

Ben: Who was the no?

Sam: I've gone off this idea.

Ben: But it's got Greg's penis!

[Greg's penis is shown again.]

Sam: Wait, what's that written on the tip?

[Greg's penis' tip has pepsi written on it.]

Greg: What.

There was originally a drawing of the tip with pepsi written on it, but I can't be bothered to scan it or whatever.

Also Greg represented misery. I hope you all realised that on your own, because if I have to explain it to you I'm not sure I'm proud of that.

Monday, 19 April 2010

Halfway to Helsinki

You know what maybe we'll not introduce this one just let the words speak for themselves, hmm?

HMMM? Dat's what I thoight.

Hipsters don't lie
An apartment. Three strangely dressed people are lying on couches, discussing fashion and trends.

Henry: I don't like, follow the mainstream.

Farquar: I know right? I just, you know.

Shar: This is so dumb you guys, we're like, talking?

Henry puts a cigarette out on his thigh because he heard it was cool.

Henry: I'm going outside to sigh.

Henry is sighing at cars as they go past. He goes inside again.

He goes for a walk in the woods while indie music plays.


Henry: Fuck this noise, I'm starting a band.

Shar: I'm singing.

Henry: K.

Farquar: And I'll DJ.

Henry: Triple K.

Black guy: That's RACIST

Henry: What's more racist is that you noticed it.

Black guy: Dayum. [eats some fried chicken and water melon - Writer's note, I have lots of black friends.]

They all go for a walk in the woods while indie music plays.

It is the scene of the first performance of the Racy Racists. It sounds like horrible noise and all the audience are hipsters taking photos of each other.

Henry: It's really difficult to play the guitarflute with everyone with the camera flashes.

Farquar: [Record Scratch]

Henry: This band needs more people.

Henry sits at a table while others bring their instruments. They are all fucking weird instruments like the one in Professor Branestrawm.

Henry: [Cutting off his ring fingers] You're all in the band.

All: Yes. [they begin to grow moustaches]

Henry: Except you [points]. You've got the wrong image.

Man: You're pointing at the wall.

Henry: [Pointing at the man] You're out of the band.

Man: Didn't even want it anyway. [puts a cigarette out on his thigh. Henry laughs, because that is no longer cool]

Henry sighs.

The band go for a walk in the woods while indie music plays.

Henry has decided that there are too many people in the band so he gathers everyone together.

Henry: There are too many people in this band. So we all have to drink this cyanide.

Everyone takes a sip

Shar: This is so dumb you guys.

There you go a witty attack on the hipster community, long may those crazy cats live.

Saturday, 10 April 2010


"Triangle, circle, square. That's a simple chant right there. Your basic chants, they're £4 a letter; you'll find them down that aisle there. And then they get harder as you progress, so watch yourself. Someone might have used one as well, you know, hidden behind a cardboard stand and put all the stuff together and drawn the pledge on the ground. So, you might find it extending or something, into another dimension. Take this watch and if it starts behaving normally, then you're fucked." The clerk moved away as he finished and turned back to stone.

That, sirs and ladies, was a section from my new novel about a supermarket for wizards. Not really, I just wrote that now. God, you must feel a fool.

The Strain
The time is 1996, love was in the air and so was a feeling of impending change. For it was an election year. Shit wait that was 1997. What happened in 1996? No wait I know.
A psychiatrist's office. A woman lies on his couch. She is talking.

Sandra: It's my father.

Dr. Gawn: It's not your father.

Sandra: It's my mother?

Dr. Gawn: No, Sandra. You are the fuck up here. That is why you are in the office with me. Here, look at these cards. [He pulls out a card and shows her it. It says "You are a failure"]

Sandra: I'm not a failure.

Dr. Gawn: It's a butterfly. [The card flies away like a butterfly.]

Sandra: You're an awful therapist, but a great magician.

Dr. Gawn: I try. [weeps]

Sandra: [weeps]

Dr. Gawn: [weeps]

Sandra: [weeps]

Dr. Gawn: [weeps]

Sandra: [creeps]

Dr. Gawn: [leaps]

Sandra: [sleeps]

Dr. Gawn: All of those things rhymed. Rewind this and see if you can figure it out.

Thinking about it, maybe I should rename that sketch "The Enigma". Because it's enigmatic.

Like myself. Can't figure me out. I'm too complex a person and yep. Well you ruined it. Good guess though.

What is you?

Your smile. Like a dream. A disgusting dream. Of whores and clowns and whiteness together and all the infinite blackness forever at last. The marriage of hallucination and the scream. The scream of mine to which there are only answers and the question is hidden. Guess when this next sketch is set?

The 80s!

A car pulls up outside the building and out pour policemen. They storm into the building shouting, "We must find it". Cut to an empty room.

[Frank enters]
Frank: This room. Ah yes. I remember it from the dreams.

Gordon: Tell us, Frank. What else can you see?

Frank: [closing his eyes] I see the wall.'s a fake. Push into it.

Gordon moves over to the wall. He pushes it and it is squashy like jelly. He is repulsed.

Gordon: You bastard Frank.

Frank: [shoots Gordon] You k-k-killed her, Gordon!

Gordon: Out of love Frank. Out of love.

Frank: Noooooooooooooooooooooo


[Frank entrée]
Frank: cette salle. Ah oui. Je me souviens du rêve.

Gordon: Dites-nous, Frank. Que pouvez-vous voir?

Frank: [fermer les yeux] Je vois le mur. Il ... c'est un fake. Poussez en elle.

Gordon se dirige vers le mur. Il pousse et il est moelleux comme de la gelée. Il est repoussé.

Gordon: Salaud Frank.

Frank: [pousses Gordon] Vous kk-tuée, Gordon!

Gordon: Par amour Frank. Par amour.

Frank: Noooooooooooooooooooooon

You just got culture'd.