Andy Ward talks to himself.

“Ok, this wasn’t part of my plan.” Confessed Jonty.

“DAMNIT JONTY!” Shouted Hank, in what was fast becoming a kind of catchphrase for the series. We found ourselves chained up in what can only be described as a stereotypical dungeon. It was dark, it was cold, it was a dungeon. There was maybe an old, dead, shrivelled parsnip in the corner. I don’t know, just imagine a stereotypical dungeon and you’ve basically got what I’m thinking of.

“Soooooo… anybody got any ideas?” Said Carl, more out of hope than expectation.

“Ain’t no point tryin’ to get out o’ here!” Said a voice we hadn’t heard before.

“Who are you?” Said Alan, unable to turn to face the voice as he was too busy hanging upside down.

“The name’s Old Man Radish! Been here for so long I can’t even remember anymore!” Said the Radish.

“You know, you sound surprisingly like you come from Texas.” I said.

“Darn tootin’!” Said the Radish. “Would you like some barbecue sauce?”. He’d fast become an entirely different character to the one I originally envisioned.

“I’m not sure that’ll help right now, but you know, maybe later I suppose…”

“Sure thang! I’ll be branding cattle if you need me!” Said Old Man Radish, as he began to hum the theme tune from Dallas. Solitary confinement had obviously driven him crazy. This would probably happen to us in time. Maybe we’d all be Texan in a month, we just didn’t know. We would have to keep our minds active somehow.

“Does anybody fancy a game of twenty questions?” I said.

“I suppose may as well, doesn’t look like we’re going anywhere.” Said Hank.

“Ok, ok, I’ve got one.”

“Is it a mineral?”

“Nope.”

“Is it a vegetable?”

“Yep.”

“It’s a radish isn’t it?” Sighed Carl.

“IT IS! YOUR GO!”

Before we’d had chance to move onto round two however, the dungeon door swung open. “That one.” Said a voice. Two mushrooms came in and began to unchain Jonty.

“What’s going on?” Said Carl. The guards didn’t respond. “What are you doing with Jonty? Jonty! JONTY!” Jonty was taken down and dragged away. The dungeon door slammed again. We hung in silence for a while. Nobody really wanted to ask what might be happening to Jonty. Apart from Alan that is.

“What do you think might be happening to Jonty?” Said Alan, almost as if he’d been reading the previous paragraph. There was a silence. Hours passed. We began to suspect we were never going to see Jonty again. Then the door crashed open again. In the light we saw the silhouette of Jonty being dragged back into the dungeon and chained back up. Then the mushrooms left.

“Jonty, what the hell happened?” Asked Hank. There was no reply.

“Jonty?” Said Carl. There was still no reply. Then we managed to turn our heads just enough to find out the horrfying reason why.

“JONTY’S GOT NO MOUTH! WHAT THE HELL HAVE THEY DONE WITH JONTY’S MOUTH?!” I screamed. Jonty was obviously unable to respond to this, since his mouth had disappeared off his face completely. He looked somewhat strange, sort of like an uncomplete Mr Potato Head. The mushrooms had even given him a bowler hat to add to this look. The scoundrels.

“We’ve got to get out of here. First they steal Jonty’s mouth for who knows what, then what? They’ll take Hank’s eyebrows? Where does the horror end?” Said Alan.

“Ain’t no way out o’ here!” Shouted Old Man Radish again. Adding a yee-haw before he clicked his spurs.

“What was that?” Said Carl.

“If I’m not mistaken, that was the distinctive sound of some spurs clicking.” Said Hank, who was familiar with such a sound. Hank line-danced every Wednesday night. He once owned a shop that specialised in cowboy boots. He wrote a musical entitled ‘The Sound of Spurs Clicking’. In short, he knew what spurs clicking sounded like. Then, the idea hit us.

“We’ll use the spurs to pick the locks!” Shouted Carl.

“It’s easy to say that Carl, but I think it’s a hell of a lot harder in practice.” I said.

30 seconds later, we were all free from our chains.

“Ok, I suppose I was wrong.” I admitted. “But now what?”

“Now we gon’ have ourselves a rooting tootin’ barbecue sauce party!” Said Old Man Radish, as he put his boots back on.

“You’re really not going to let that go are you?” Said Alan.

“Darn tootin’!” Replied the Radish.

“Ok, well, you stay here and have a… ‘rooting tooting barbecue sauce party’ was it? We’ll go look for a way out.” I said.

“Darn tooti-”

“Shut up.”

“Ok.”

We approached the dungeon door, opened it as slowly as possible, and peeked into the corridor. It was a long corridor, full of doors. An unremarkable corridor, with lots of doors. There were many doors, and not much that stood out about the corridor. It was the kind of corridor that in retrospect, probably shouldn’t have been described in text. It was however, empty. We began to slowly creep down the corridor, afraid that at any moment we could be ambushed by mushrooms. We figured the door at the end was the exit. It was larger than the other doors, the oak wood that it was crafted from was noticably worn around the edges, the handle had taken on a much duller tone, almost as if it was used more frequently than the other doors. All these were signs that suggested that this might be the exit. The green exit sign above the door was also a clue of sorts, but detecting this wasn’t quite as Poirot-esque. We would have to sneak past several other doors to get to this exit, many of them ajar. Were these rooms full of mushrooms? Who knew? Should we gamble?

“GAMBLE!” Shouted the studio audience, who, up until this point, we’d been completely unaware of.

“I think we’re going to gamble Vernon.” I said, to rapturous applause from the assembled berks who were always going to recommend we gambled because they had nothing invested in the story. We continued to slowly creep along, passing door after door. In one room, there seemed to be a party going on. I recognised the sound of the cage dropping onto the mouse in Mouse Trap. I’d once written a musical called ‘The Sound of the Cage Falling Onto the Mouse in Mouse Trap’. Between me and Hank, we’d written a number of wildly unsuccessful musicals. No wonder we were so hideously poor. As we approached one door though, I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was Jonty. he was pointing to his mouth, and then to the door. “What is it Jonty?” I said. I suddenly felt like the boy from Lassie. Then I realised. This was the room where Jonty had been taken. A chill spread across my body. What was in this room? Surely it was only wise to take a look?

“Andy! Come on!” Whispered Carl, as he and the rest of the group reached the exit door, but it was too late, I’d already begun to inch the door open. As I peered through the gap, nothing could have prepared me for the horror that I saw.

And that’s where it ends for today. Many people would say ‘Wow Andy, well ended on a cliff-hanger there, it’s almost as if you got to that point and then hadn’t actually thought about what you saw and needed time to go away and maybe think about what it was that you saw’, to which I would reply ‘Well that’s a long sentence. And yes’. Anyway, I have other things that need finishing. This story may even end one day. Who really knows anymore?

We stood at the door to the Parsnip Kingdom whilst the banging continued. Bang bang bang it went on the door. Then bang bang bang again, which was shortly followed by another bang bang bang. “I think they’re battering the door down” Said Jonty, helpfully. Then it banged again. Bang bang bang.

“This banging seems to be going on for a long time don’t you think Andy?” Said Alan, confused.

“Hey! You try writing over 1000 words a day without stringing it out a little bit Alan!” I snapped back, as we reached the 96th word.

“You should hide! They’ll be looking for you!” Said the Parsnip King.

“Hide from some mushrooms? How scary can they possibly be?” Said Hank, who, let’s not forget, was the owner of Hank and Alan’s Mushroom and Onion shack. He’d seen more than his fair share of mushrooms in his time, and only three of them had been particularly scary. The ratio of scary mushrooms to non-scary mushrooms was probably only 1:50,000. Hank fancied his chances.

“You don’t understand! Just hide! Quickly!”

“Fine, we’ll hide, but where? Shesnip, where can we hide?” I said.

“If you follow me, there’s a secret passage behind the King’s throne. If you follow that you’ll come to a secret library. Push the third book from the left on the top shelf and another door will open. Go down the slide and take the lift down into the catacombs below the castle. Nobody will ever find you there.” Replied the Shesnip.

“No, wait a second, I’ve got another idea!” Said Jonty.

30 seconds later the Mushrooms broke down the door and began to stream in. They were scary beasts, the kind of beasts that rendered Hank’s ratio completely redundant. Seemingly hundreds of armed guards swarmed into the castle, surrounding the poor parsnips. They were followed in by a much larger, regal mushroom with an imposing presence who smiled at the Parsnip King menacingly. “Ah, Gordon, we meet again. And this time, not in a soup.” He said.

“Bernard…” Said King Parsnip.

“Tell me, where are the beasts who slayed the giant?” Asked the Mushroom King.

“They’ve gone! You’ll never find them now!” Laughed the Parsnip King, defiantly.

“Is that them underneath the tablecloth over there?” Said the Mushroom King, pointing to a shape that looked decidedly like five people covered in a sheet.

“DAMNIT JONTY!” Shouted Carl, as he threw off the sheet that had been hiding us so poorly.

“How the hell was this better than the catacombs?” Said Alan. Jonty shrugged.

“So… these are the people who slew the green giant are they? They look decidedly thicker than I’d expected.” Said King Mushroom. “This one seems to have got grease stains on his trousers.”

“I dropped a chicken drumstick on them.” Said Alan.

“Don’t you have Persil where you’re from… Alan is it?”

We were stunned. How dare he accuse us of not having Persil. We’d all heard of Persil. It could get stains out even if you did a cold wash apparently. We were just ready to hit him with these facts when we realised we were probably stunned about the wrong part of that sentence. We should probably be more concerned with how he knew Alan’s name.

“Of course we’ve got Persil. We’ve got about three different types of Persil actually. There’s regular Persil, Pers-”

“Shut up Alan. How did you know his name?” Said Hank.

“I think I can answer that.” Said a voice from the back of the crowd. He slowly moved through the guards, who parted either side in a fashion that was far too overly dramatic and cliched to actually feature in the movie version of this tale.

“Dennis…” I gasped.

“It’s Donald actually. My name’s in the title.” Said Donald, as he brushed a fly from his waistcoat.

“I know, I was just trying to be condescending.” I said, as I glared at Donald.

“Well it didn’t work.” Said Donald, as he flicked a cricket from his trousers.

“Really? Well then, what’s your surname? Donald…” I thought for a minute. Or five. “… Smells?” I chuckled to myself, knowing that this devastatingly witty remark would surely hit him where it hurt.

“Is that the best you’ve got Andy?” Said Donald, as he slapped a slug from his sock. Donald was covered in a surprising number of animals today.

“Actually it was.” I said, disappointedly. I was stunned that he’d managed to brush off such a cuttingly brutal remark, but that’s the kind of man that Donald was. He deflected criticism like he deflected slugs. With his hands.

“But where have you been?” Asked Carl.

“A good question.” Replied Donald. “You see, the thing is, I’ve been here before Carl. I discovered this world weeks ago, when you were all too busy playing Truth or Dare, before it got boring. Alas, there were problems. I stumbled upon the Mushrooms Carl, and let me tell you, they’re not a good people.”

I knew it. I’d always suspected that mushrooms were rubbish. Now I had actual fact to back it up.

“Anyway, they’d never seen anything like me before. Turns out that not many humans pass through this way. They wanted to kill me there and then, but I convinced them that it wouldn’t be in their interests. I could bring them more people. You see, there are better uses for humans here, the possibilities are endless.”

“What do you mean?” Squeaked Alan, as his less than manly vocal cords reminded us of his previous life.

“You’ll find out soon.” Laughed Donald. “Take them away.”

We were seized by the mushroom guards and put in more shackles. We’d spent a surprising amount of this story shackled up. Heck, we were more shackled than Shaquille O’ Neal doing the Shake ‘n’ Vac with Shakira to the music of Chaka Khan. We were pretty shackled.

“I’ll be back for you Shesnip!” I shouted as we were led away.

“My name’s not Shesnip!” She shouted. It was. That was how history would record her until I actually thought of a name.

“Whatever!” I said, as I made a W with my hands despite being pretty damn shackled.

“Jonty, I can’t help but think that this is your fault somehow.” Said Hank.

“Don’t worry, this is all part of my plan.” Whispered Jonty, as the mushroom people marched us out of the Parsnip Castle as their prisoners. Exactly how this was all part of the plan would remain to be seen, as we unexpectedly head into the 5th part of this seemingly neverending story tomorrow. I should be applying for jobs you know. I’ve got other things to do. Is this my legacy? A story about vegetables?

Perhaps it is, and you know what? I’m ok with that. That seems like a fair way to remember me when I’m gone. ‘Andy Ward: He was hideously useless in the real world, but boy did he know how to write stories about vegetables’. I’ll be back tomorrow.

“You came here through an onion you say?” Sneered the Parsnip King. “A likely story.” We had been thrown into shackles and taken to the palace of parsnips. We kneeled in the royal court as King Parsnip sat upon his throne, listening to our explanations. Whilst he did, he continued to flick through the pages of his Premier League 1994 sticker album. Over the years he had collected all the stickers, partly to prove his influence throughout the land, partly because he loves stickers. He paused for a moment, and then thrust the album in Hank’s face. “Tell me, what do you see here?” He asked.

“It… It’s a shiny Denis Irwin sticker…” Stammered Hank.

“Yes… a shiny Denis Irwin sticker. Do you like Denis Irwin Hank?”

“I don’t have any feeling about him either way really…”

“Tell me, what do you think of his spell at Oldham Athletic Hank?”

“But Sire, hardly anybody remembers Denis Irwin’s career at Oldham Athletic.” Interjected a parsnip aide. He was right. This was getting obscenely niche.

“SILENCE!” Screamed King Parsnip, as he slammed his sceptre down onto the floor. “I’ll ask you again Hank. What do you think of Denis Irwin’s spell at Oldham Athletic?”

“I… I… don’t know your majesty…”

“Don’t know eh?” The Parsnip King got out of his seat and strode menacingly towards us. “Well you will Hank, let me tell you, you’ll know. SEND IN THE ROBOT DENIS IRWIN!”

There was a silence.

“Sire, we don’t actually have a robot Denis Irwin…” Said the aide.

“Hmm… I suppose you think you’ve got away this time then Hank.” Said the Parsnip King. “Well, you haven’t. Oh no, you haven’t at all. SEND IN THE GARY PALLISTER DROID!”

“Sire, I don’t think you quite understand…”

“THE STEVE BRUCE CYBORG!”

“Sire. We don’t have any of these. I’m not entirely sure where you think we are.”

“Very well. You win this time Hank. You win this time…”

The Parsnip King sat back down on his throne. “So tell me again, what is your purpose in being here?”

“Well your majesty” I began, “we were just hoping for a bit of an adventure when, as I said, we happened to fall into this onion, and then suddenly we found ourselves here. We met a green giant…”

“You met the green giant? How is he?” Said the King.

“He’s err… he’s… fine?”

“We shot him.” Said Jonty. The Parsnip King drained of colour, which was pretty hard for a parsnip as they never really have any colour to begin with. He was now pretty much transparent.

“YOU SHOT THE GREEN GIANT?” He screamed.

“If it’s any consolation, I think he was ok…” I said, trying to calm him down.

“He wasn’t. We burned him.” Added Jonty.

“DAMNIT JONTY!” Shouted Alan.

“So the green giant is dead?” Said the Parsnip King, hesitantly.

“Yes.”

The King sat in silence for a short time, evidently deep in thought. He rose from his throne again, and slowly approached the group of us, still nervously kneeled before his throne.

“Then you are friends of the Parsnips!” He said, suddenly. “Release their chains!”

The guards who had escorted us this far helped release us from our shackles.

“The green giant has been terrorising us for years. If he had his way we’d all be trapped in a tin and sold us to the highest bidder. Finally we’re free, and all thanks to you! We must celebrate! And surely you shall be the guests of honour at our feast! Now let us make haste, for there is no time for spare!”

The Parsnip King exited the hall, his aides in tow. “You are free to go.” Said one of the guards, and so we left. We exited the royal court and ventured out into the parsnip world. Word had quickly got around that the green giant was dead, and a party atmosphere spread throughout the streets. We were local heroes. If only Donald had been around to enjoy this. He was at the back of our minds now though, we were too busy enjoying ourselves.

That evening, the Parsnip King did indeed put on a celebration for us. It was a lot like a medieval banquet, insofar as that’s the only image I can conjur up to accurately describe what it was. It was a medieval banquet. There was lute music, there were jesters, who were rubbish. None of them had any jokes about posting peoples lungs, and the parsnip people had turned out in force. Truly, everybody was having a magical time, and we were at the centre of the celebrations, sat at the King’s table.

“So what do you think of the parsnip party?” Said The Parsnip King, nudging Alan.

“It’s good. Thankyou.” Said Alan, as he took another sip from his pitcher of ale. We were all having a fun time. We’d never partied with parsnips before, but boy did they know how to party. Some said that they should perhaps be called partysnips? Get it? Partysnips? Instead of parsnips? Partysn- you know what, forget I said anything.

It was when I was enjoying a turkey drumstick that it happened. I felt a tap on my shoulder and heard a voice “Excuse me, would you care to dance?” It said. I turned around to be confronted by the most beautiful parsnip I’d ever seen. It was like a parsnip with hair. Beautiful hair. A lovely she parsnip. “Yes, I’d love to dance, but… I don’t know how…” I confessed.

“It’s no problem, just follow my lead.” Said the she parsnip, who will henceforth be known as Shesnip until I can actually be bothered to think of a name that would be appropriate for a female parsnip.

“Righty ho.” I said, as we headed to the dancefloor, and I nodded to the lute player in a motion that said ‘Play that David Bowie song from a Knight’s Tale.’ And he did. I have absolutely no idea what happened next, the dance was but an adrenaline-filled blur that I’m fairly sure incorporated the running man. I think this is what happened, I can’t remember, I was pretty drunk, all I remember is that when we’d finished dancing there was a round of applause.

“Andy you dance like a Parsnip!” Said the Parsnip King as he slapped me on the back. “Please, accept this key to the city!”

“Why thankyou Sire! But please, I wouldn’t have been able to do it without this Shesnip.”

“Did you just call me Shesnip?” Replied the beautiful parsnip.

“I still haven’t thought of a name for you yet.”

“Ok.”

“Why this is no regular Shesnip…” Said the King, as he put his arms around us both. “This is my daughter!”

“Oh boy!” I said, as the lute player played the theme tune from Quantum Leap.

“Now come Andy, we have much to discuss. But first, let us all raise a toast! To the adventurers who slayed the green giant!”

The assembled crowd of parsnips all raised their glasses and began to drink. Then, a noise. A bang. Somewhere near. Then it was louder. A bang again.

“What’s that?” Said Carl.

“Everybody run!” Shouted the King! “It’s the mushrooms!”

And that’s the end of Part 3 of this story, which is fast becoming a very long tale with no end in sight. We’ll see what happens tomorrow shall we?

We fell into the onion for what seemed like days. It wasn’t actually days though, this was an exaggeration, it was probably only for about 20 seconds, but in falling into onion terms, that’s days. Traditionally, falling into an onion just involves slapping your face against it on a chopping board, and that only takes a fraction of a second. Anyway, yes, it felt like days before we crashed to the earth. “Where the hell are we?” Said Alan, as he picked himself up and dusted himself down.

“I think I’ve swallowed a stamp!” Coughed Carl as he got to his feet and began to retch.

“Don’t worry Carl!” I said “That just means we can post your lungs!” This made absolutely no sense, but that had never stopped me before. I left a ten minute pause for laughter, which, unfortunately, was not forthcoming, and we were forced to continue the conversation. We very quickly realised that something was missing however.

“Where’s Donald?” Said Hank. It was a good question, and not one that we had the answer to. I’d pushed Donald in by the face, and had followed him shortly afterwards. The rest of us had all ended up in the same place, whatever had happened to Donald?

“DONALD! DONALD ARE YOU HERE?” We all began to shout. “CARL SWALLOWED A STAMP! I SAID WE SHOULD POST HIS LUNGS!” I added, hoping that the laughter that such a funny quip would produce would surely enable us to identify his position. Alas, it was just as funny the second time, and another 10 minute pause for laughter passed silently. Donald had seemingly completely vanished. Maybe he had made his way out of the onion and was back in the bar. Maybe he was lost within the onion and trying to get out, we just didn’t know. We were going to have to explore the land more if we hoped to find him again. It was a strange kind of place, the like of which we’d never really seen before. We appeared to be stood on what looked like a road made of sweetcorn. It looked a lot like the yellow brick road from that other story about the Wizard. The Wizard of Oz, that’s it. But it was made of sweetcorn. We knew this because Dr Hank ate a bit and said “Mmm… that’s some sweet corn.” He was a scientific mastermind, he really was.

“Hank! Don’t eat the road!” Screamed Jonty.

“Why not? I’m hungry, it’s sweetcorn. It just makes sense.” Said Hank, as he picked up another bite and began to devour it.

“Hank! Stop it! Look what you’ve done!” Said Jonty, as he pointed to a gaping hole in the road that used to be sweetcorn.

“Oh who’ll ever know anyway? This place is deserted.” Said Hank. Then we were interrupted by a booming voice.

“WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO MY ROAD!” Said the voice. We all turned to be confronted by what can only be described as a green giant.

“How the hell did nobody notice him before?” Said Alan, slightly confused.

“YOU’VE EATEN MY ROAD. DO YOU KNOW HOW LONG I SPENT GROWING THIS ROAD?” Shouted the green giant, angrily, as he smashed his fist down, causing the whole floor to shake. He did seem somewhat disappointed, it was hard to know how he was going to react now. Perhaps he would kill us. Perhaps he would not. Perhaps he would spin a roulette wheel and decide whether he would kill us or not. Perhaps he would not spin a roulette wheel and not decide whether he would kill us or not. Perhaps he would let us pick a card out of a pack of cards and if it were the Ace of Spades he would kill us. Perhaps he would not let us pick a ca-

“Andy, stop writing this down.” Said Carl. “Do something. The green giant likes jokes, and you’ve done stand-up comedy haven’t you? Distract him with something so that we can make our escape.” Carl was right. I had done stand-up comedy, and had a number of very funny stories in my repertoire. I knew just the tale to distract this beast.

“Good evening! My name’s Andy Ward!” I began. “So, the other day I had this friend who swallowed a stamp, and I said ‘Hey! You should post your lu-”

“Andy for fuck’s sake, it hasn’t worked twice already, just give it up.” Interrupted Carl. “Have you got anything else funny?”

“No…” I was forced to confess.

“Great? Anybody got any other plans?”

“Well, I’ve got this gun…” Said Jonty. Nobody knew quite where Jonty had acquired a gun, nor why he was carrying it around, but we were all thankful that he had it. And so it was that we shot the green giant and ran away.

“That seemed like a bit of an anti-climax.” Said Alan, “I was expecting some kind of brilliant Hustle-esque idea to get us out of that situation, what happened?”

“I couldn’t think of anything, and it seemed to be dragging on for an overly long time.” I confessed. They all nodded in agreement, it had been dragging on for an overly long time and hadn’t progressed the story at all. We were now roughly 900 words into Part 2 of the tale, and we had achieved practically nothing. At this rate the story would be stretched out to the length of an actual novel. “Anyway, I guess we should get walking.”

We walked South-West (or Shredded-Wheat depending on which version of the compass you’re using) for around 5 hours before we came across a large castle that seemed to be located in the middle of nowhere. It was much like a traditional castle, the kind that might turn up in The Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time, or something like that, except without a drawbridge. We approached the heavy wooden door and began to bang on it.

“Hello? Is there anybody in there?” Shouted Jonty. There was no reply. He banged again. “Hello? Is it me you’re looking for?” He tried, hoping that perhaps they were aware of the music of Lionel Richie or else they wouldn’t get this reference at all, even though it probably didn’t make any sense in this context. Again, silence. As we turned to walk away however, the door slowly began to creak open. We stared through. The castle appeared to be empty, the streets deserted and silent. We slowly edged our way inside. “Hello?” ventured Jonty again. Then from nowhere they descended upon us with their bayonets. Before we knew it we were surrounding by very pale, unrecognisable creatures. “PUT YOUR WEAPONS DOWN!” Shouted a voice. Then, from the shadows, a figure emerged. Another of the pale creatures, though this one was dressed far more regally.

“Who are you?” I said.

“I… AM THE KING OF PARSNIPS!” Screamed the figure.

Anyway, that’s the end of Part 2, in which we haven’t really achieved anything. I’ll probably be back for Part 3 tomorrow. Or the next day. At some point anyway.

I thought that whilst getting this story off my chest, I might as well share it with the world, thus allowing me to finally be free from the burden that I’ve been carrying around for years. It’s only a matter of time before the press get wind of it anyway, and I’d prefer to break the news on my own terms. The background to this story is that a few years ago, whilst me and a few friends were hanging around at ‘Hank and Alan’s Mushroom and Onion Shack’, things quickly got out of hand, and… well, it fast became a tale of love, betrayal and finally, revenge in the world of vegetables. You’ll see.

It was a Friday. We could tell this because the hour hand on the clock was pointing to Friday, and the minute hand was on o’ clock. It was Friday o’ clock. We’re not entirely sure what the precise time was on Friday, since our clock wasn’t yet that advanced, but it was dark outside, so was probably evening. There we were, in Hank and Alan’s Mushroom and Onion shack, just like every Friday night. The whole gang had turned up, me, Hank, Alan, Donald, Jonty and Carl. We were like the three musketeers, were there to have been an additional three musketeers. The six musketeers is what I think I’m getting at.

“What are we going to do tonight?” Said Carl, as he licked a stamp. Carl loved licking stamps, even if he had nothing to post. Sometimes he’d just lick stamps until his tongue became glue. That was the kind of man Carl was. Donald threw a dart at the dart board. Triple 17. 51.

“Fifty-one.” Said Donald. He then subtracted that from the 501 score that you start a traditional round of darts with. “Four hundred and fifty.” Added Donald. His dialogue had, thus far, been very boring.

“We should do something exciting.” I said. “Like go outside of this place.” This was typical of me. I’d been attending the Mushroom and Onion shack for over 30 years by this point (don’t ask how), despite not liking either mushrooms or onions.

“You always say that Andy.” Said Hank. “I don’t know why you bother coming here every week, since you like neither mushrooms or onions.” Little did Hank know that I’d explained this point prior to him actually bringing it up.

“I just think we’ve seen enough mushrooms and onions to last us a lifetime. There are only so many times we can sit here and play Truth or Dare without it getting boring. We’re not 14 year old girls anymore.” I was right, we weren’t. Nor had we ever been in fact. Apart from Alan, who was once known as ‘Eileen’, but that’s a story for another time.

“How dare you slander Truth or Dare!” Shouted Carl, as he spat stamps everywhere. “It never gets boring!”

“Doesn’t it?” I said.

“Truth or Dare?” Replied Carl.

“Truth.” I said.

“Do you like mushrooms?” He asked.

“No. Dare.”

“I dare you to try an onion.”

“You see what I mean? It’s the same every time! Let’s just go out for once and do something exciting!”

Jonty banged his fist on the table to remind everybody that he was still in this story despite having no dialogue from the outset. “Damnit, Andy’s right!” He said. “We should do something fun! Let’s have an adventure!”

Donald continued to play darts. He hit a double 12, then accidentally threw the other two darts out the window. “Twenty-four.” He said, as the scream of a man whose ear had just been penetrated by a dart became audible in the distance. Donald approached the dart board and removed the single dart that remained. “Fine. We’ll go out.” He grumbled.

“But where?” Said Alan, in a shrill voice that betrayed the fact that his hormone therapy was not working properly.

“Paulton’s Park?” Said Hank.

“Is that the place with the owl?” Asked Jonty.

“Probably.” Replied Hank.

“Then no. I’m allergic to owls.” Jonty was right. He was allergic to owls. He had learned this during his time working at the owl sanctuary. He had a lot of days off sick.

“Then where else?” Said Hank.

“Maybe we should just stay here after all.” Said Carl. “Donald, Truth or Dare?”

“Dare.”

“I dare you to tell me whether you like mushrooms.”

“Oh for goodness sake!” I screamed as I stood up. “We’re going out and that’s the end of it! I’m not staying here talking about onions!” And with that, I picked up an onion from the basket of onions kept on the front desk and threw it against the wall. It shattered into a thousand pieces. Minus 998. It shattered into two pieces. A perfectly split onion, lying on the floor. Only this was not like any other onion. The onion that had shattered appeared to be glowing on the floor. “Alan, turn the lights off.” I said. Alan did as he was told. The onion was glowing. It’s centre emitting some kind of aura.

“What is that?” Stammered Hank.

“It’s an onion.” Said Donald, sarcastically, as he finally managed to drag himself away from his boring game of darts.

“Shut up Donald! Or we’ll boil you!” I said, making reference to a previous story that many people will have no idea about.

“It’s not a regular onion…” Added Hank, helpfully “Regular onions don’t glow.” Hank had a PhD in Chemistry, so his opinion was of vital interest, and if Hank said it wasn’t a regular onion, it probably wasn’t. He should really be referred to as Dr Hank, but that would take at least 2% longer to type.

Then, suddenly, a howling wind passed through the bar. It seemed to whisper to us. “Come into the onion…” It said.

“Did anybody else hear that?” Said Jonty, nervously.

“Hear what?” Said Carl.

“The onion spoke.”

“How could it speak? It’s a fucking onion.” Said Donald. Our jaws dropped. Alan fainted.

“Donald, you can’t use swearsies!” I said.

“Swearsies? What are you eight? I’ll say whatever the fuck I like.”

“But Donald! What if this adventure were to eventually be adapted for children! How would they censor your foul-mouthed dialogue?”

“They’ll just have to live with it won’t they?”

“Donald, I have to say, you’re fast becoming the villain of this piece.” I said. And I was right, he was.

“Oh fuck off Andy, it’s just swearing, give it a try!” He snarled back.

“No! I won’t! This is a beautiful story and I don’t want it getting an 18 certificate because of your rude language!”

“Tits.” Blurted Jonty.

“JONTY!”

“Sorry, I couldn’t help myself.”

“That’s it! Everybody into the onion before this becomes Goodfellas!”

One by one they jumped into the onion. Quite how is anybody’s guess, but they all did. Vanishing into its core. Apart from Donald. “Get in the onion Donald.” I said.

“What’s the magic word?” He replied.

“Get the fuck in the onion.” I said as I pushed him in by his face and resigned myself to the eventual 18 certificate of the movie version of this tale. Little did I know that it would only get more hideous from here.

Anyway, that’s the end of the first part of this story. I might be back later with the second, it depends on how much free time I have*.

*Lots. I’ll inevitably be back later.

It’s my 50th blog post. Yes, that’s right, it’s often seemed like they’d been dragged on for a hell of a lot longer, indeed, I’m fairly sure there are still some prisoners in Guantanamo Bay who are still cracking under the strain of being forced to read some of my blog posts.

“Today I had some cereal. It was unlike any other cereal. It was a lot lighter in colour and texture and made a few poppety pop crackley snap noises. I called it ‘Bang Whizz’. It was around this time that I remained unemployed and forgot to shav-”

“NO MORE! I’LL TELL YOU WHAT YOU WANT!”

I actually did forget to shave today, but that’s a story for another time. Another boring time which will surely lead to cannibalism and riots in an attempt to stop me reciting another two and a half hour poem about noodles.

I actually went out last night though. I went to Comic Boom at Komedia in Brighton, which is always a fantastic night, and saw some genuinely brilliant comedians. Seann Walsh really is ridiculously good, I think I was actually crying with laughter at some points, and found myself laughing when I even thought about his act today. See him if you get the chance, he’s excellent. Also saw some other up and coming acts, who were pretty good, and a professional comedian called Stephen Grant, who was also fantastic. I worry that I can never really be as good as these people, but I’m going to try my best. I do think I’m getting better, and I’m a lot more organised these days, it’s less a case of turning up with some half-memorised ideas and seeing what happens and more a case of actually being prepared and knowing what I’m doing. Now it’s just a case of actually thinking of some good material and going out and doing more gigs. That should be fun.

I wrote some more of my sitcom on the train yesterday, though there was a man who came and sat down next to me. I was afraid that he was going to steal all my brilliant (and I use that in the loosest possible sense of the word) ideas, and so cleverly utilised my cloaking device to prevent him from doing so. And when I say cloaking device I mean I shielded my notepad with my hand. It was like I’d put on Sauron’s Ring, it really was. I probably chuckled to myself as well at some point, so, to get the scenario straight, I was a berk sitting in the corner merrily chuckling to himself while scribing secrets. He probably thought I was going to tear a page out and pass him a note saying ‘I LOVE YOU. P.S. WOULD YOU LIKE SOME EVIAN?’ I did not.

I continue to work away on the new version of the sitcom. I think the alternative version makes a lot more sense. There are few fewer coincidences, and the story flows better. It genuinely could be very good, I’m actually really excited about finishing it. Of course, Homer Simpson thought his Spice Rack was going to be great. That’s what it’ll probably end up being. One literary spice rack.

I’m sure that when I started typing this there was a lot that I wanted to say, but true to the form of the previous 49 blog posts, it’s turned out in much the same style. Hundreds of words detailing that I was going to say something interesting, but then it slipped my mind and we were all left eating polystyrene instead of gourmet sausages. Don’t worry though, I’m going to keep ploughing on with this blog, so perhaps eventually we’ll all be able to feast on polystyrene coated in Paul Newman’s Caesar Salad dressing. Splendid. Bye.

I thought of trying to come up with a pun involving the word ‘gig’ to use for the title of this post, to show that I’d done a gig IN A HILARIOUS WAY! LOLZORD! Anyway, ‘oil gig’ was literally the best I could come up with. I know, it doesn’t work on any level. It just sounds like I’ve done some kind of charity benefit for some Texan oil magnates. This wasn’t what happened. Last night I had a gig. It was at one of my favourite venues I’ve done so far, a small pub called the Prince Arthur in Brighton, which at first seems really intimidating as it’s a small venue and the audience are pretty much right on top of you, but in actual fact it’s probably the friendliest place I’ve gigged at.

Last night’s gig was a lot of fun anyway. I was entrusted with opening the night, which is always quite worrying because in a way it then places a lot of responsibility on your shoulders for determining how the night will go down. I wasn’t sure I was the right person to do this, especially given that my actual ability seems to fluctuate wildly from one gig to the next, occasionally appearing to be quite good, and then sometimes just coming across as some homeless man who’s found a microphone in a bin and insists on using it to tell everybody about the different objects he’s found in his beard. I’m very much a comedy roulette, or at least, I have been. I’ve become a lot less shambolic, as I’ve realised that there are certain rules I’ve got to play by. At this level of comedy, when you’re just starting out, you basically just have to drag yourself about the country doing spots of 5 minutes. Where I’ve been going wrong is that I’ve been writing a new 5 minutes for almost every gig so far, a task which really heaps pressure on myself to try and come up with good new material every few weeks or so. Surprisingly, given that this is what I’ve been doing, it’s not been as disastrous as it really should have been. Well, that’s not true, there have been gigs where it’s been exactly as it should have been and I’ve died a death. They’re quite funny in retrospect though. My second gig especially, where nobody cared but I was determined to have a good time. Acting the part of a panda slowly playing a synthesiser whilst an audience looks on in baffled silence is still funny in my eyes.

Changing my 5 minutes every other gig or so means that I’ve never really had a great 5 though, which is a problem, as if you do want to do it properly you need to have a 5 that’s completely solid and works virtually every time. My 5s have been alright, but they’ve not been at a level where they’ve been tweaked to be as tight as possible, so there’s still a lot of filler material in there. I’m fixing this now though and working on coming up with a solid 5 minutes that I enjoy, and perform at every gig whilst I continue to experiment with and add small bits of new material, eventually building up to a solid 10 minute set, then a 20, then maybe one day a 45, or even an hour-long Edinburgh show which I still think I’d quite like to do one day. I’m not yet sure whether I want to pursue this as a career or not. It’s fun, but it would probably be ridiculously stressful doing it as a job. Writing may be where my interest truly lies.

Anyway, yes, my gig. It was great fun. It went quite well. That’s about all I can say. I learned a lot from it thanks to recording it all on my dictaphone, meaning I now know exactly what worked and what didn’t, so can drop the rubbish, leaving me with what I hope is gold. It’s like operating a big comedy sieve. One day I hope to have non-stop gold from start to finish. Like Abba do on their hit album, ‘Abba: Sieved’.

I’m going to leave it here as The Daily Show is going to start soon. That and I’m starting to bore myself and I’m not even sure I’m making any sense. I’ve not had much sleep. Maybe I shall treat myself to a Horlicks later. Party time at Andy’s. Bring a quilt.

Ok, that definitely made no sense. Bye.

That’s right, following on from the critical success (read: panning) of ‘A hat for my gardener’, I’ve already started work on the sequel. I call it ‘A hat for YOUR gardener’. See what I did there? I’m such a visionary. Anyway, this one is set in the future, so is a bit of a departure, but should be good. I’m hoping that eventually people will have sort of ‘his and hers’ towels and bathrobes and stuff, but embroidered with ‘A hat for my/your gardener’ instead. Perhaps with a giant picture of a flat cap on the back and maybe a holographic trowel. I can see this being a real money-spinner. Anyway, a hat for your gardener.

SCENE 1 – A HAT FOR WHO? MY GARDENER? NO, YOUR GARDENER.

EXT. A STREET. NIGHT.

It is dark. It is the future now too, a far cry from the setting of the original ‘A hat for my gardener’, which had a sort of ‘Goodnight Mr Tom’ vibe to it. This is infinitely more futuristic, and the background scenery conveys this. There are quill pens made of tinfoil, a pocket watch that says ‘[ENTER YEAR LATER]‘ and a newspaper made of iron. An urchin enters.

ROBOT URCHIN: Hello guv’nor. Can you spare a penny?

SORT OF CYBORGY MAN: No! begone with you you foul rascals! I need these pennies for my indigestion tablets!

ROBOT URCHIN: Please Sir, I need it for a hat.

SORT OF CYBORGY MAN: A hat you say? A hat for who?

[Cue piano]

ROBOT URCHIN: I NEED IT FOR A HAT FOR YOUR GARDENER! HOW WILL HE BRAVE THE COLD WITHOUT PARTNER! A PARTNER MADE OF CLOTH I SAY! A PARTNER, NOT A MOTH! I NEED A HAT FOR YOUR GARDENNNEEEEEEEEEEEEEEER!

SORT OF CYBORGY MAN: NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO.

END SCENE. CLOSE CURTAINS IN FUTURISTIC MANNER, THUS KEEPING THE AUDIENCE IMMERSED IN THE PIECE. PERHAPS CLOSE THEM SLOWLY WHILE PLAYING TAINTED LOVE. THAT WORKS.

SCENE 2 – HAT FOR YOUR GARDENER, HAT FOR YOUR GARDENER, WHEREFORE ART THOU HAT FOR YOUR GARDENER?

EXT. A GARDEN. DAY.

The gardener is tending to some flowers with some futuristic gardening implements. A teleporting shovel and a time travelling rake for instance. The urchin enters.

ROBOT URCHIN: Gardener, I’ve got some bad news… I’ve not been able to get you your hat…

GARDENER: Robort? (See what I did there? IT’S THE FUTURE PEOPLE, KEEP UP) Robort? Is that you? Come closer so I can see you without my spacetacles. (SPACE SPECTACLES. OH COME ON PEOPLE.)

ROBOT URCHIN: It is me Gardener. The manor owner wouldn’t spare a penny for your hat fund.

GARDENER: It’s ok Robort, it’s ok. I don’t need a hat really…

GARDENER coughs violently

ROBOT URCHIN: But without a hat then your circuits are exposed to the elements, you’ll die out here Gardener! You’ll di- hold on a second, where’s your rake gone?

GARDENER: To the 17th century I believe. You know how rakes can time travel these days. It is the future after all. The future.

ROBOT URCHIN: Yes.

GARDENER: Now I’d better be getting on, I’ve got to plant these moon bulbs so that we can grow a new moon in time for halloween. But don’t you worry Robort, I’m going to be just fine.

GARDENER coughs violently again

END SCENE.

Again, we’ll have to skip a few scenes, as they’re yet to be written, but thankfully the end is, as always, completely intact.

SCENE 513 – THE GARDENER IS NOT FINE.

INT. A HOSPITAL. DAY.

The GARDENER is lying in the bed. He is barely conscious. He appears to be strapped to some kind of hospital machine. We’ll use an iPod for this to imply that technology has really advanced. Which it will have. It’s the future.

ROBOT URCHIN: Gardener! What’s happened!

GARDENER: I’m fine Robort, I’m fine… It’s just… the rain… it short-circuited the fuse for my lungs…

ROBOT URCHIN: Oh gardener! If only you’d had a hat! If only we could have got you a hat!

GARDENER: It wouldn’t have helped Robort… It wouldn’t have helped…

ROBOT URCHIN: But it would! We could have saved your life!

GARDENER: It wouldn’t have helped Robort…

ROBOT URCHIN: It could have!

GARDENER: Robort. It wouldn’t have.

ROBOT URCHIN: You don’t know tha-

GARDENER: I’ve got robot syphilis.

ROBOT URCHIN: Oh… well that kind of came out of the blue.

GARDENER: Well you pushed me into it. I didn’t want to say anything, but you wouldn’t be quiet. This really had nothing to do with the hat.

ROBOT URCHIN: Aren’t we meant to finish on a big musical number about hats?

GARDENER: Oh right, yeah, sorry. Hold on, I’ll just sit down here and die.

ROBOT URCHIN: Oh thanks! Just die and leave it all to me!

GARDENER: Goodbye Robort. Goodbye forever…

[Cue piano]

ROBOT URCHIN: A HAT FOR YOUR… GARDENEEEEEEERRRRRRRRRRRR.

[Cue chorus of boo/queue for refunds. Close curtains to the theme tune from Robocop]

THE END.

Now I just need to secure the financial backing and we’re go. So, who wants to spend $7 million wisely?

I’ve penned a musical. I’m hoping to put it on in the West End eventually. It’s actually quite moving though, so if you don’t like sad films, then I’d advise you stop reading now, because this could get quite weepy. Anyway, let me know what you think.

SCENE 1 – SETTING THE SCENE. THE FIRST SCENE.

EXT. A STREET. NIGHT.

The scene is dark. It is Victorian England or something else quite old. Not as old as the pyramids or really ancient civilisation, but fairly old. This is conveyed by the background scenery, which is awash with old things. Pocket watches, maybe some oil lamps and a bit of papyrus. This signifies that it is olden times.

A STREET URCHIN ENTERS.

Urchin: Hello guv’nor, penny to scrub your shoes?

Guv’nor: No you urchin! I’ll scrub my shoes myself!

Urchin: But I need the money to buy a hat for my gardener?

Guv’nor: A hat for your gardener you say?

Urchin: A hat for my gardener.

CUE PIANO.

Guv’nor: I CANNOT GIVE YOU MY PENNIES… FOR I MUST TRADE THEM FOR RENNIES… MY STOMACH IT BURNS WITH THE ACID OF INDIGESTION, SO SURELY YOU MUST FORGIVE ME MY INDISCRETION!

Urchin: BUT ALL I WANT IS A HATTTTTT! A HAT FOR MY GARDENERRRRRRRRR!

END SCENE 1. FADE TO BLACK/PULL ACROSS A CURTAIN OR SOMETHING.

SCENE 2 – DAMNATION OF THE DAFFODILS.

REVERSE THE POLARITY OF THE CURTAIN CLOSING. OPEN THEM IN OTHER WORDS.

EXT. A GARDEN. DAY.

It is a garden, but an old garden. There is an old man planting old things like pocket watches, maybe a grandfather clock and a 18th century quill pen. This reminds people that we’re still in olden times, and helps them to keep up with the tricky plot, which will later throw up some unexpected twists and turns. An urchin enters. It might be the same urchin from earlier, depending on whether he’s quit by this point. Otherwise, it’s a different urchin.

Urchin: Good morning guv’nor. I’m an urchin who appeared/did not appear (delete as appropriate) earlier.

Gardener: Is that you Robert? Come here so I can see you without having to put on my glasses. I think I’ve buried them in the soil.

Urchin: Were they old glasses?

Gardener: Yes. It’s olden times you know.

Urchin: Yes.

Gardener: Ah, Robert, it is you! Why not come and help me plant these daffodil eggs?

Urchin: Alright guv’nor, let’s plant them together.

CUE PIANO.

ALL SING: WE ARE PLANTING DAFFODIL EGGS! DAFFODIL EGGS! DAFFODIL EGGS! WE ARE PLANTING DAFFODIL EGGS! ALLL DAY LOONNNNNGGGG!

GARDENER begins to cough quite violently. Cue slightly more solemn piano

Urchin: What is it Guv’nor? Did you eat some soil?

Gardener: It’s not that… [coughs violently] It’s just my head is so exposed to the elements that it’s letting all the viruses in like a bald fleshy sieve.

Urchin: I tried to get you a hat. I tried, and I’ll keep trying, but it’s not easy.

Gardener: It’s ok Robert, I know you’re trying your best. It’s just some parts of society don’t want gardeners to wear hats.

Urchin: I know, it’s olden days. Things are like that in olden days.

Gardener: Now come on, I’ll be fine… for now. What say we go and draw some hieroglyphics on the shed?

Urchin: Anything you say guv’nor. Hieroglyphics is the main pastime in the year [ENTER LATER].

Gardener: You’re a good lad Robert. A good lad…

CUE SPOTLIGHT ON URCHIN. EXIT STAGE LEFT GARDENER.

Urchin: Where will I find a hat for my gardeneerrrrrr?

CLOSE CURTAINS AGAIN. END SCENE 2. PAUSE FOR APPLAUSE. IN THE EVENT OF NO APPLAUSE, KEEP CLOSING AND OPENING CURTAINS UNTIL AUDIENCE DO APPLAUD. THEN CONTINUE PLAY.

I haven’t actually written the middle few scenes yet, though I’ve got some idea how they’ll pan out, but right now we’ll skip to the end. This bit is a real tear-jerker, even more so than the touching scenes you’ve already seen, and they had me welling up, so I’d really advise you have a box of tissues at the ready.

SCENE 89 – MY KINGDOM FOR A HAT FOR MY GARDENER.

INT. A HOSPITAL. DAY.

The gardener is lying in a hospital bed. He is barely conscious. At his side is the street urchin. He is crying. Other than that, the room is filled with various items from the era. Chariots, a crossbow and the Turin Shroud.

Urchin: But you can’t die gardener… I’ve got you a hat. It’s here. I’ve got you a hat… don’t die now.

Gardener: I’ve got to die Robert. It’s too late, the doctors say that my lungs have already started to fall out the top of my head and there’s no device that can stop that not. Not even a piece of patchwork cloth…

Urchin: They’re wrong gardener! They’re wrong! I don’t care what they say, you’re coming home with me!

Gardener coughs violently

Gardener: I want you to have this Robert… I want you to take this hat so that you never have to suffer the same thing I did…

They are both crying at this point. As are most of the audience. If they audience are not crying at this point, hit them with alternate script B, otherwise, skip straight past that.

SCRIPT B

Urchin: You never even told me your name guv’nor…

Gardener: You can call me dad… son. I’m sorry I forgot your birthday, I was too busy raking some leaves. I suppose now I’m going to be raking leaves in a better place. Rake heaven.

END SCRIPT B. RETURN TO REGULAR SCRIPT.

Urchin: I can’t take this hat. This is your hat. A hat for my gardener…

Gardener: No, don’t be a fool Robert! I want you to staple this to your forehead and never unstaple it with a compass or some scissors or something like that. Do it for me Robert… for me.

Urchin: Ok… guv’nor.

Urchin staples the hat to his forehead. If the actor playing urchin screams, try and cover this with a bit of jaunty piano music.

ENTER DOCTOR.

Doctor: Ok gardener, it’s time to go now.

Urchin: What? What are you doing?

Doctor: I’m injecting him with some latin verbs.

Gardener: Just like old times Robert, just like old times…

The gardener dies.

CUE PIANO.

Urchin: A hat for my…

Urchin falls to his knees.

Urchin: … Gardeneeeeerrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr [hold for duration of standing ovation/if standing ovation is not forthcoming, hold until last audience member has filed out of the building muttering under their breath]

CLOSE CURTAINS/COLLECT FLOWERS THROWN ONTO STAGE/OPEN CURTAINS AGAIN/CLOSE CURTAINS AGAIN/OPEN CURTAINS AGAIN/CLOSE CURTAINS AGAIN/OPEN CURTAINS AGAIN/CLOSE CURTAINS AGAIN/FIX MALFUNCTIONING CURTAINS.

THE END.

Sometimes I astonish myself.