Monthly Archives: November 2009

FIFTY!

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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.

Oil gig.

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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.

A hat for your gardener.

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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?

A hat for my gardener.

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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.

Horlicks > Ovaltine

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Last night I conducted an experiment in my laboratory (read: kitchen). I made myself a mug of Ovaltine. It was a long process, and in all honesty, the test tubes and bunsen burners that I’d set up were probably surplus to requirements, though I was determined to make sure I got it right, so that I could finally settle the score in my head of which was better, Ovaltine or Horlicks. Now, having already given away the result in the title of the blog, if you do want to know the score, look away five minutes ago.

The Ovaltine was fine and all, and it was certainly reasonably tasty, but essentially, it was basically just like somebody had smelted some shreddies and put them in a glass. There was nothing that made me really think “Hey, yeah, this Ovaltine could really be a contender, I see potential in this drink, maybe I should add some rum.” You can always tell if I think a drink is good by whether I decide to try and add rum to it to try and make it some kind of drink megazord. I’ve done it with practically everything I like. I added rum to milk once to make a cocktail that I called ‘Pirates at the farm’. It wasn’t great, though I would later venture to a restaurant in London where they were selling these for about £7 each. Admittedly, they tasted a bit better than mine, but still, I considered it an opportunity missed on my part.

Whilst Ovaltine doesn’t necessarily have anything to distinguish it as being supreme, Horlicks on the other hand sets its stall out from the outset. On the front of the packet is a picture of the moon. AND HE’S ASLEEP. Or at least, I think he’s asleep. I’m fairly sure I remember seeing him being asleep on the packet when I last checked. I could easily go and check now, but I’m just going to stick to the assumption that he’s asleep on the packet. Maybe every packet is different, maybe it’s a series of adventures chronicling the moon’s adventures throughout the night. I was just fortunate to pick up a packet where he’s getting some rest, rather than one of the other Horlick’s packets where he’s spitting at some strangers, swearing at a cockerel or eating from a bin. Really though, if Horlicks is powerful enough to send even the moon to sleep, it’s got to be powerful enough to power my sleep. After all, the moon wouldn’t voluntarily sleep at night, this is his time when he can come out and see everybody. Sleep during the day when nobody knows you’re there. It makes more sense that way.

Aside from that, Horlicks is also probably tastier, that’s a key factor. It tastes better than Ovaltine I’d say. It’s not as obvious that somebody has just liquidised a cereal. I like this.

Those are basically my conclusions on that warm drinks debate that I’ve been having with myself. I was genuinely excited about trying to find out which one was better. This is kind of what my whole week has been building up to. That’s not good is it?

Today, more writing. I find that music and the internet act as Kryptonite to my writing, and so instead I’ll just be sitting around in silence with one of my trusty notepads. I can’t listen to music because then my mind is just full of music and nothing else. I realised yesterday, while standing at work, that I don’t actually think at all while I’m there, I’m just stood still with a tune going through my head. Apart from that my mind is blank. The internet is the same, I’ll just sit and browse the internet without thinking, taking in information that I may one day use in a conversation or something. I found myself talking to a customer about the Haye vs Valuev boxing match yesterday, despite knowing next to nothing about boxing, and having no real interest in it. I’d just absorbed facts from the internet without realising, and was thus able to make out that I knew what I was talking about. “Yeah, he’s quite tall isn’t he? Slow though, like a slow fox. A fox on crutches or something. David Haye? Yeah, he’s faster, like a fast fox. On rocket powered crutches. Or something.”

Those probably weren’t my exact words, but I imagine it was something along those lines.

I’m going to go and put another Loyd Grossman pizza in the oven now. I think on this one he’s got his mouth hidden behind a handful of basil. He should really get together with the moon sometime for some superb collaborative effort. Perhaps Loyd could be stroking his chin with a carrot while the moon injects itself with heroin in a dark alleyway. I’m not entirely sure what product this could be used to advertise. ‘Loyd and The Moon’s heroin carrots’ would be the obvious choice, but I’m not sure that this product would have such a successful future. They’d probably both end up in prison, and if the moon ends up with a curfew then we’re all in trouble.

WHO DOMAIN?

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YOU DOMAIN!

New domain name. No improvement in quality.

I’m not sure what to say now. I sort of think that this should be the glorious moment when I smash the champagne bottle against the side of this metaphorical ship, however I’ve not really got anything interesting to say, so this probably won’t be so much a spectacular champagne launch of a flagship luxury cruiseliner as it will be roughly equivalent to a tramp throwing an empty can of Fosters at a sinking pedalo.

Maybe we should start off with a firework display. IN ASCII!

* * ~o~

Actually, scrap that. Not that I’ve got any better ideas. I could try and get a game of Wink Murder going, though it would probably just consist of me sitting here winking at my monitor. And I’d feel pretty guilty if anybody actually did die when they read this then. Unless it was a happy affair. Unless there’s just some old person who just stumbled upon this site thinking “Well, I’ve achieved everything I ever wanted to with my life, apart from one thing… I haven’t played imaginary wink murder in my head with a berk on the internet.” Now you can die happy. The rest of you, stay here and be depressed with me as we try and think of a brilliant way to launch this new era of the same website but under a slightly different name. Nobody leaves. Unless you already have, in which case, well done for staying so long. Even I got bored and wandered off earlier.

I haven’t actually mentioned what I’m ‘celebrating’ here. I bought a domain earlier, for the very reasonable fee of £9.25 for a year. Now my blog can be found at http://andy-ward.com instead of the 40 letter or so address it used to be. Many people would question why I’ve done this, to which I would reply that it just looks tidier in the address bar. And that’s worth £9.25 in my opinion.

That’s basically all I’ve done today, and I’ve now mentioned it. I think that’s as good a launch as we’re going to get. I’m very tired. I’ll probably end here as I might go and watch Countdown for a while. I’m dreadful at the words (which, unfortunately for me, make up 90% of the show), however I’m surprisingly good at the numbers round. I’m not sure how I work numbers, as I have no idea how I’m doing most maths, but I’m quite good at it. I have literally no idea how to do multiplication and division on paper. I’m sure there’s a method behind it, but I couldn’t tell you what it was. I could try and explain my methodology, but it probably wouldn’t make much sense. All I know is that I’m good with numbers somehow. I’m Russell Crowe in A Beautiful Mind, that’s me.

“This One Stop employee, he’s got a gift…”

“Who? Andy? Don’t make me laugh!”

“No, seriously, I was watching him watching Countdown earlier, and even though he was bafflingly inept with the words, he seemed to be reasonably good at the numbers round.”

“Reasonably good you say?”

“He gets the answer maybe three times out of four.”

“My god…”

[Cue rousing inspirational music as the camera slowly pans in on me proudly shouting a five-letter word at the TV. Probably 'Broom' or something equally rubbish/cut to titles]

“Andy, do you know why we’ve summoned you here today?”

“Broom.”

“It’s because you’re in the top 80% of the country for the numbers round on Countdown. Andy… you have a beautiful mind.”

“Hold on, I didn’t see the S. Brooms. Six.”

“A beautiful mind…”

[Cue more rousing inspirational orchestral music]

I’d better end this now or I’ll probably miss the numbers round at the end and the traditional ‘shout a word that doesn’t actually exist at the conundrum’. Bye.

The dog hates fireworks.

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He just tried to put on a display for the family. He’d really bigged it up beforehand. For the last week or so he’d just left flyers littered about the house saying ‘THIS THURSDAY. COME TO THE GARDEN. YOU’LL LOVE IT. LOVE FROM ARTHUR XX.’ Anyway, we all went out there and he was stood in his wax jacket looking excited. “Prepare to be blown away!” He barked. Unfortunately though, he couldn’t seem to utilise his paws to light a match to set off the fireworks, and when we tried to help he just growled at us and told us to stay away. After three hours of watching him try to set up a catherine wheel with his nose, he eventually told us all to just go inside, and he’d be in later. Now all I can hear are faint murmurs of the soundtrack from The Shawshank Redemption from the bottom of the garden and the bottle of whiskey that we keep on the side at all times in case of emergency has disappeared. I think he’s embarrassed. He shouldn’t have played it up so much.

Today I actually decided I’m going to restart the sitcom I’d pretty much finished all over again. It doesn’t work as well as I’d like and I think the only way to fix this is to change virtually everything there is. This means that the sum of my writing efforts this year are currently nothing. This is disappointing, however, on the plus side, I genuinely believe that this script will be better for the change, if I get it right, and could actually end up being quite good. I mean, I say that now, but by the time it’s finished it’ll be the usual process of sitting around berating myself for being rubbish. I hope that all writers (I say this as if I’m a writer, when, as mentioned, I’ve not actually finished anything yet) think they’re terrible. That would be somewhat reassuring.

Loyd Grossman made me a pizza today. I say he made me it, it came in a Loyd Grossman box, so I assume he makes them himself. The box implies somewhat that dementia has set in with Loyd, as rather than having a picture of him just smiling, as most celebrity-endorsed products have, he’s instead decided to go with a picture of him smelling a tomato and looking angry. Is he not happy with the tomato? Or is he trying to hide behind it? Either way, he has no need, as the pizza was quite tasty. He shouldn’t be concerned in any way that people might associate him with the pizza, because if anything that might be a good thing. Hopefully he’ll get over his shyness, and future editions of the pizza will see him either emerging happily from the tomato, or looking quizzically towards the tomato in the distance and shrugging his shoulders in a manner that says ‘I can’t believe I was smelling the tomato angrily, what was I thinking?’. This is how Paul Newman’s Salad Dressings panned out you know.

“Alright Paul, if you could just stand over there and smile we’ll have this done in no time.”

“Stand and smile? Is this for the salad dressings?”

“Yeah.”

“Actually, I’ve had a few ideas of my own about that.”

“Right… go on…”

“What if, instead of standing and smiling, we took a picture of me angrily kicking a piece of lettuce?”

“Well Paul, that’s… well, it’s interesting, and I’ll consider it, but in the meantime, why don’t we just take this smiling picture?”

“Ok, ok, so you don’t like that, I get it. What about, instead of that, we have me coughing on a radish?”

“Coughing on a radish?”

“Coughing on a radish.”

“I’m just not sure how this is going to translate to sales Paul…”

“What if I just smiled…”

“Yep, good.”

“… at a photograph I was holding of me kicking some lettuce.”

“Paul, I’m not sure you quite understand what I’m getting at here. How do I put this… people don’t want to see you being violent towards vegetables, that’s not going to make them want to buy your product.”

“I’m not following you.”

“Just trust me on this, we’ll go with the standing and the smiling for now, and I’ll explain later.”

“Righty ho…”

“Ok, you ready?”

“Yep, ready.”

“Say cheese!”

“Wait! One second!”

“Fucking hell, what is it now?”

“What if I were to cry… at an aubergine.”

“Oh forget it, let’s just draw the picture on.”

True story. I mean, he’s dead now, so won’t be able to confirm this, but I’m fairly sure this is how it all panned out.

Yesterday I had some Horlicks.

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This was literally as exciting as my day got. At one point I decided to mix some rum in with the Horlicks (I seem to mix rum in with everything these days, just to see whether it works. Soon it’ll reach the point where I’m dousing weetabix in rum. Something to look forward to), to see whether I could create a super drink. I thought “this could be my salvation, if I can just patent a brilliant drink and market it as the hot new clubbing drink, I could make millions.” Horlicks and rum was to be this brilliant drink. To be fair, it worked surprisingly well, a lot better than I’d expected, and miles better than various other drinks I’ve attempted to craft over the years (Jack Daniels + milk + ribena, Milk + rum + Danone coconut yoghurt drink, basically milk plus anything it seems). I’m not sure it’ll be overly easy to sell to the clubs though, since I’m not sure people will be prepared to stand around at the bar while their mug gets microwaved for a minute. Also, spilling your drink would suddenly become a lot more deadly. People would probably be coming out of clubs with third-degree horlick burns, an entirely separate degree of burns entirely, a lot more severe than regular third-degree burns.

“Doctor! We’ve got to rush him to intensive care, quickly!”

“What’s the problem?”

“Can’t you see! He’s got third-degree burns!”

“Of course I can’t see! Don’t you know I’m a blind surgeon!”

“Well, that’s a story in itself… Can we fix him?”

“I don’t know, third-degree burns you say?”

“Third-degree Horlicks burns.”

“Horlicks burns! If we don’t get him to surgery quickly then he might smell slightly malty forever! Pass me my scalpel!”

“Doctor, I’m not sure this is entirely wise.”

“Damnit nurse! Give me my scalpel or we’ll lose him!”

“Ok… but if anybody asks, I was against this…”

“Am I fixing the burns now?”

“No, you’re stabbing him in the face.”

“Is this it?”

“No.”

“Alright, can you tell me when I’m getting warmer?”

“Ok… cold… colder… coldest… ok, now you’ve severed his arm.”

“DAMNIT NURSE!”

“Why the hell did we even hire a blind surgeon anyway?”

Anyway, that was yesterday. I did a little bit of writing in the end, not as much as I’d have liked, but still a little bit. I did have some ideas for my first sitcom which I ‘finished’ ages ago and want to go back and edit now, so I may try and implement a few changes soon, though having said that, I had these ideas just before I went to sleep, and have now forgotten most of them which is… good. At some point I’ll probably convince myself they were all rubbish anyway. They probably were. You see, I’ve started already.

I’m not sure what I’m going to go and do now. Probably nothing, which I’ll then come back and try to write about tomorrow for another thrilling read, like a Famous Five book in which they do absolutely nothing. ‘Five Sit Down and Think About Cake’ or ‘Five Reminisce About Toenails’. That kind of thing. Not that I reminisce about toenails. I mean, I’m bored, but at no point during the day have I ever found myself going ‘Ah, good toenail times…’ I’m not Hannibal Lector, or some similiarly obsessed toenail collecting maniac, however, this has provided some kind of inspiration for a horror film I might write. The Toenail Collector.

“What was that? Did you hear that? It came from the front porch!”

“But the front porch has been dead for 30 years!”

“Then that means…”

“It’s the toenail collector! Hide your toenails!”

“I can’t! They’re stuck to my feet!”

“Then run for your life! Or at the very least, your toenails!”

This really has ended on quite a dark note hasn’t it?

The dog is a maniac.

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He’s licking his own legs because they taste of raspberry, and he’s left one of his unbroken toys lying about in the living room. Most of his toys don’t have a head anymore, as, slightly worryingly, he seems to like to tear them apart to find out how they work. He’s basically the dog equivalent of Sylar.

Anyway, I thought I should update this blog as I haven’t done so in about a week, which means I must have been busy doing something. I had a gig the other night, that was fun. It wasn’t brilliant, but it was ok, and I’m kind of getting back into it a bit now. Well, I say that, I’m still what I would regard as bobbins, but I’m more relaxed about being bobbins now. I don’t even remember being nervous at all for this gig. It was quite fun.

I’m still trying to apply for jobs, though given that my last few applications have seen me claim that Die Hard is humankind’s greatest invention, and argue that an egg cooker is probably the best idea I’ve ever seen, I probably shouldn’t get my hopes up too much. I still see my salvation being in my own idiocy. If I never make any money from it, at least I might enjoy doing it, it can be quite good fun, a lot more rewarding than stacking Mars bars I’d wager. Though having said that, I had a Mars Dark the other day, and it was superb. It’s a pleasure just to be in the presence of such a delicious treat. I would recommend it to anybody.

Having got a few applications out the way, I’m going to try and do some more writing today I think. I need to cure my lethargy. Doing this blog, as spectacularly dull as it may often be, is a way to keep my hand in the writing sand, attempting to fish out diamonds that may be hidden beneath the surface. Writing poor metaphors that make no sense is also a way to try and fix my laziness. Eating noodles, that helps. I love noodles, I really do. I’d love to find a brilliant noodle bar and go there now. I went to a place called Noodle Stop in Leicester Square the other week, and that was alright, though their noodles weren’t spectacular. They were alright, and quite tasty, but I’ll still continue my quest for the best noodles in the world. Or at the very least, London.

I should never really use this blog to describe what I’m actually up to, because it tends to make for a phenomenally boring read. I don’t actually do anything that by anybody else’s standards would be classed as even remotely exciting. I’m enthralled by the prospect of noodles, that’s who I am. Most people wouldn’t be able to spend all their time consuming imaginary noodles in their head, but being a somewhat more culinary-obsessed Doctor Parnassus of sorts, that’s exactly what I do. I’d like to go outside and do stuff, but even then I think most of the stuff I’d like to do outside would revolve around eating tasty treats. Mostly that requires a bit of money to do. I need some money. I often wonder if there might be a treasure chest in my back garden, but I think it’s probably too much hassle to check, and if there weren’t one I’d be in trouble for destroying everything. I can’t decide whether it’s a risk worth taking. Perhaps I’ll just head down to Ladbrokes and see what odds I can get on there not being a treasure chest in my back garden, then even if there isn’t one, I’ll still be making a lot of money from it. This is inspired, why aren’t more people doing this? Perhaps they are. Perhaps Ladbrokes is just full to the brim of old men in cloth caps making wagers on whether there are some dubloons under their apple tree. I’ve never really spent any time in a bookmakers, so this could quite easily be true. I’m going to assume it is. It makes the world a more magical place. Anyway, I should go and cook some pasta.