Turning pro in less than 362 days!

Hopefully turning pro in less than six thousand three hundred and eighty nine days!

Friday, 27 May 2011

Stop Writing Scripts and Start Making Movies

Have you recently read a scriptwriting book, only to go to the cinema and be unbelievably confused by what you’ve seen? Then you’re probably Greek and going to the cinema to learn English.

That was a joke –I’ve still just finished writing a sitcom, so I’m probably on some kind of come down. I certainly snapped at the Jevovah Witnesses this morning. But you can’t choose your housemates. Well you can, but I can’t. Anyway, back to the paradigm stuff.

Are you getting the impression that all these courses, and books, and workshops, and events, and websites, and seminars and all things written by these fucking script readers and ‘ gurus’ are specifically designed to stop you succeeding?

In much the same way that the government laces tap water with fluoride, and uranium 234, to reduce our natural thought process, so the so called experts are lacing their advice with red herrings, dead ends and bullshit. I should know, I’ve just wasted 60 quid on a script review by someone very well respected in the Leamington Spa area. And for what? To find out that he understands fuck all, except, like some felching owl, how to regurgitate some waffly bumjuice he’s got from somewhere.

It’s Darwinism, my friend. Actually, I can say friends, I’ve got five followers now - that sounds so much better. It’s an inside job. It works in a similar way to this hypothetical and, in some ways unfortunately misogynistic, set up. Please appreciate that the following does not reflect my views, or the way I consider men or women, it’s just the first thing that came to me, with a view to proving my point.

Imagine that you are a man and that you are heterosexual. You may well have quite liked the look of the odd man, and sometimes, when you’re watching smut or something, you may get a bit confused about how you feel, but for the purposes of this exercise you are not gay. Not that those things make you gay. And not that there’s anything wrong with being gay. I myself love gays. In a platonic sense. Especially the height of their shorts. I must admit though, I do shudder when I imagine the Valhalla type rectum that must accompany the face of a promiscuous homosexual pensioner, as he penetrates the post office for pranks and parcels.  If I was gay I would curse the rectum for having none of the continual elasticity of the vagina. Which is odd, don’t you think, considering how much more often you poo than give birth?

Anyway, imagine you are a man. Then imagine that across the entire world there are only a few thousand pretty women, hidden away in ostentatious castles, each of which will only bed one man once in a year, in order to produce a baby. Most of these women are in America - in the U.K. there’s only one hundred of them. Every other woman on Earth is a total minger (think of a baboon’s backside with a cold, grey eye embedded in each butt-cheek). So, there’s going to be a lot of, literally, stiff competition to book a slot with some hot stuff.

As a result, the world has become infested with haughty pricks giving advice on how best to win one of these hallowed bed notches. They have become bloated from the extortionate fees they are charging for their advice, and from the shit, bile and gas they are backing up. Most, if not all of these tiresome bell-ends have fucked mingers, in the hope that this will give them the air of confidence, when talking about the ways of women. The world is littered with chinless, glazed eyed children, spawned by these ill-considered copulations.

Mind you, some of their advice is sound – you have to apply for first class coitus by taking a picture of your nob and sending it to one of the secret strongholds. And it has to be a polaroid. Any other type of photo will automatically be put straight into the bin. But then they get ahead of themselves -your nob has to be a specific size, if its too big or too small it will be laughed at, all love making must happen in three stages, if you don’t make her cum in the first ten minutes, forget it, you’re out the door, don’t bring a vibrator in at the end that you haven’t previously utilized to make her climax or the orgasm will be dissatisfying, and if your cum doesn’t contain key ingredients it’s unlikely to lead to fertilization. So the poor men in this world are frantically busying themselves with exercises and counter-intuitive diets. And the children that are born are homogenized, because it’s only a certain type of bloke that passes the tests and gets in to the castle. The gene pool is stagnating, and it’s all the fault of these bloody idiots!

Except that now the beautiful women are smuggling different , interesting men that aren’t scared to use their hands and tongues at the same time, up into their cloistered cloisters and riding them ‘til they’re issuing nothing but dust and rhetoric, yet the bloated tools are still scampering around, feeding themselves with forked tongues.

So, my advice is to find a minger with a good heart, and an outlook similar to yours and fuck! Fuck in every way you can possibly imagine, with every protrusion and orifice you can muster, and then some. Ok, maybe the first couple of kids might be mingers, but they will be mingers born with love in their hearts, and every so often mingers fuck and out pops a princess. And all princesses belong in castles.

Thursday, 26 May 2011

Don't Fear the Reader

Welcome back. Sorry I haven’t blogged for a while – it’s been an incredible eleven days. I have so many things to say and only one mouth. I know some of you have almost certainly been thinking:

           Garth, what are you playing at? You’re
           nearly 5/12ths of the way through your
           challenge and you’ve only guffed out the
           one pitch.

           Calm the fuck down! Firstly, because it
           makes me anxious, and when I get anxious
           I clam up, and productivity, masturbation
           aside, slips drastically away. Secondly,
           because it’s all part of my master plan.
           I can’t just get myself out there with
           nothing to show, throwing shit around like
           a deranged bonobo, hoping some of it sticks.
           I’m not Nicolas Cage.
           I’ve had to build up a portfolio, a body
           of work, to work with, from and at. I’ve had
           to drill holes in the earth and jet my seed
           in it, and work the earth, grow the seeds,
           wait for a stalk to appear and work that
           stalk, build it up, big and strong, and pump
           everything I possibly can off it before
           the produce withers and dies.

Right now, I’m feeling fruity. First off, I’m going to meet a script reader tomorrow about my newly finished sitcom script –can’t wait! I know what you’re thinking – I’m giving £60 to some fucking chancer – some washed up talentless prick, who isn’t good enough to make it as a writer, so spends all day making sure no other cunt does, meaning the only scripts that ever make it have come from the younger brother of the fucking cameraman, or the daughter of the director - thereby freeing up the script reader to do what he/ she does best – read absolute dogshit scripts and get paid fuck all for slating them.  

Nepotism rules ok, you’re thinking. Well actually you’re wrong – and what the fuck made you so bitter? Was it the countless rejection letters filling up your hallway? Or the ones you’ve pinned up on a wall, in the cupboard at the back of your bedsit that should really be used to store miscellaneous electrical items, next to the accompanying photos of staff that work at that particular production house, in the event that if you run into them in the street you can mouth abuse with relative anonymity? I hope not, because you’d have to look in there every morning, just to feel confident of your facial recognition abilities, and probably install some lighting or something, judging by how murky your flat is. And you’d probably have to have a balaclava on you at all times, or something similar, so that if you did run into them, you could quickly whip it on, throw your insult and get the hell out of there. 

Wow, take the fucking hint sunshine – you ain’t got it and no amount of guerrilla action is gonna bring back the talent you never had. These guys are fucking professionals and they know what they’re talking about. And even if they didn’t, they have a checklist on them at all times that lets them know what is required from a script and when.  If your script was rejected it was for a reason. And that reason is that your idea stinks worse than a beef bolting bulimic’s burp and what’s more you delivered it, which makes you a beef bolting bulimic burp birther.

Not you, by the way, I didn’t mean you, or your ideas, I was talking hypothetically.

Suppose I should leave it there – I’ll let you know how the meeting goes tomorrow. I haven’t got time to tell you about the film-maker that’s interested in tracking my progress for a possible documentary. His previous for petty arson and poultry theft might prove an obstacle with U.S. customs, were I to make it to Hollywood, but for now it’s very exciting. 

Saturday, 14 May 2011

Tweeting Hell

Twitter is a fucking weird space, don’t you think?

When I joined it a few months ago I was so excited, I was thinking, sweet, in a couple of days, after a few witticisms I’m gonna be buddies with Stephen Fry. He’s gonna take me to Norwich City home games, and I can sit there like a chick in a nest, hungrily gulping down all the literary maggots he regurgitates for me. It’s gonna be incredible.

Then I get on there. And I realise that it’s a lot like life. It’s just me floating around cyber-space, with no connection to anyone else. I don’t know, I just thought that it would be like plugging into the matrix – there I would be connected to all these people, part of a huge family. I thought it would be like a huge pack of bonobos, everyone constantly sniffing each others arses, following, fucking, tweeting. In a way, of course, you are all connected. You are free to message whoever you want on there, they just won’t fucking answer, or even acknowledge that you sent it.

You tweet a message. “I just picked my nose”. Then you look at your followers, surely they are going to be flocking to that. That is obviously someone I want to know. Nothing. Still zero. Weird, I think, I’ll go and make a cup of tea. Come back still nothing. How long does this shit take?

Then I notice that there are things trending. Gary Moore has just died, he’s in there. So I tweet “1952-2011 Gary Moore. 2011-eternity Gary No Moore”. That is gold. Nothing, although I do pick up my first follower. Then I realise every cunt out there is trying this trick. There’s one hundred coming in every second – no-one gets a fucking chance to read yours, because one hundred other twats have just gone over the top. Then someone like Will Ferrell comes on in, slaps out his hairy balls and writes “With Gary less was always Moore” and its instantly a top tweet, held at the top of the page for eternity. That’s where I wanna be, I think, at the same time as fantasising about him rubbing his tiny cock whilst acknowledging that my gag was funnier.

How do I reach these guys? If I can get some responses from famous people my follower tally will go through the roof and that famous director will listen to me! I can’t tweet him when I’ve only got four followers!

So you spend hours trying to think of something funny to say to someone famous, only to have it ritually ignored. This to me is far worse than a terse ‘fuck off’ response. If I was famous I would have my ten favourite insults on a template that I would copy and paste to unfunny pricks like me that tweet in.

Only, when it comes to the rich and famous you don’t have hours. You have to be quick. They tweet something and suddenly here are a million fart suckers out there, hovering like flies around shit, brains a grinding, working out the funniest thing in the quickest possible time. This graph demonstrates the problem caused by time in responding to celebrities.

You check out the profile of your favourite vitriolic comedian stroke journalist – he’s just said something about spiders, he’s just seen a big spider in his flat – I know he’s quick so I can’t delay or he’ll think I’m a cunt. So I send “scatter dead flies over your floor and he won’t bother you for at least a week”. He is going to piss himself at that. Dead flies over the floor, imagine me trying to catch them all, ho ho, and then offer them, like some insectivorous Mayan sacrifice, he he! I know, that gag’s going to make it onto the next episode of my TV show. Thanks Garth, tell you what, I’ll message you on here so everyone can see how funny you are, then I’ll private message you to invite you to write my high brow newspaper column for me. Only he didn’t, because he’d just had a message from his good buddy TV presenter man, who said something really shit like “I knew a spider, once”. Not only can you not get through to the celebs they gloatily tweet each other’s foibles, tantalising you with the intimacy of their inner network.

It’s how the peasants must’ve felt in the dark ages, hanging around outside the castle, desperately waiting for a morsel to be thrown over the battlements. Only these are no concrete walls, they are invisible, we know what they are eating for breakfast, because they just fucking told us. Just like they tell us every other little thing they do. Now they’re going for a poo. I tweet something funny about this, but instantly worry that it is not up to the standard expected of this great man. I quickly get up from my seat, embarrassed and confused. I run into the kitchen, mumbling to myself, chastising myself for my over-confidence.I get back to my seat ten seconds later, shaking and sweating. I look in my mentioned folder. Empty.

But now I’m in too deep, I need a hit of twitter smack. Somebody love me, somebody famous acknowledge my incredible humour and interestingness! I forget about the film director, fuck ‘im, the lofty prick, I’m setting my sights lower. I try the reasonably well known comedian, he’s on there a lot. Nothing. This will not do. I try the ex-soap actor, a man so ugly you have to lift up his hair to make sure his legs aren’t in there, and am consequently ignored by a man almost universally reviled and considered a bell-end. Maybe they can sniff the desperation. That wasn’t the tweet of a confident man with nothing to lose, that was the tweet of a man one step away from moving in next door to an extra from The Bill. I’ve hit rock bottom.

This is tough love personified. Except there is no love here. There’s no emotion whatsoever. Just total indifference, like a man looking up to the sky on a beautiful morning, watching a kite, and ignoring the hundreds of shooting stars invisibly passing by.

Know thy place, cunt.

Tuesday, 10 May 2011

TV Review - BBC1 Sitcom - Not Going Out

Whilst I wait for The Asylum to get back to me regarding my pitches (they must be good – ordinarily I should’ve heard by now –I certainly did when I pitched my wasp documentary idea to Sting) I’m going to do a review of what is, without doubt, the cleverest, most subtle piece of comedy to have come out of the BBC since Peter Stringfellow got booted off Hole in the Wall for feeling up the wall itself. 

Just when I thought comedy couldn’t get any more post-modern this comes out and bites me on the ballbag like a gigantic gnat AKA Gnatalie Cassidy.

What am I talking about? The evident blueprint for the next wave of BBC sitcoms – Staying In, no, hang on, Not Going Out. 

The action centres around the hilarious exploits of two middle class, middle aged cunts, who think they’re really funny, only every joke dies as quickly as Osama bin Laden did on December 13th, 2001. It’s a scenario played out in every nightclub in Britain, and now they’ve transposed it to a flat somewhere in London. 

It’s a relentless barrage of cringe-worthy one liners- purposefully missing the spot like a couple of hyper trophied teenagers in a nunnery. One of them, played by Lee something, who is a stand up comedian in real life, must’ve found this part very challenging. If you don’t know who I mean it’s the guy who was on They Think It’s All Over a lot and looks like a sarcastic ice cream. Every time he tells a joke he pauses, slightly purses his mouth and lets his eyes die. Wonderful. He utilizes a similar mechanism in this enterprise, but with a humf instead of an eye die and, because it is deliberately shit, this nuance works to perfection. 

Here’s a brief transcript


Lee enters the room in just a t-shirt and boxers – there is a very odd, tall lady, whose face is 75% cheek, 25% scrotum (I think her name is Miranda, but can’t be sure) vacuuming the place.

           What the hell’s going on?

           Why, what have you found?

Lee takes his hand out of his pants, widens his eyes, mouth drops slightly and he moves jerkily forward.

           Who are you?

           I’m Metropolitan Cleaning Services U.K.

           Bit of a mouthful, I’ll just call you
           Miss U.K.

She flicks her hair.
           Thank you.

           That wasn’t a chat up line.

Only, of course, it was! Why else would you say it! How else could it have any meaning! Absolutely bloody brilliant! How anyone could so authentically get inside the mind of people so banal is a testament to the creative process and a veritable joy to behold.

And because they have bravely dispensed with any kind of legitimate characterisation, it doesn’t have to do the age old thing of bringing laughs out through behavioural idiosyncrasies and can rely on the far meatier mechanic of a torrent of deliberately piss poor one liners. The most incredible part of the whole thing is that it’s made it on to BBC1, which normally reserves its comedic airwaves for contrived middle class twiddle like Droll Parents With Even Cleverer Children and Fuck Me I’m A Tall Bird Who Looks Weird So Must Be Funny.

This is a leap into the unknown, into post post-modernism, and I applaud the BBC for making it. Check it!

Tuesday, 3 May 2011

Pitching to The Asylum

Welcome fellow scribes and Gartholomites!

Today we are going to test a little theory. 

I remember ages ago, when I first thought about becoming a writer, a wise old owl (I don’t use that expression lightly, he did really look like one - with huge eyes framed by incredibly bushy eyebrows, and a small, pursed mouth, like a beak, fed by over-active salivary glands, resulting in two permanent reservoirs in the corners of his mouth, like eutrophic ox-box lakes of magniloquence, filtering out unfitting words like ‘nice’ and ‘good’) told me never to tell anyone about any idea I might have until it has been made or, at least, green lit. I didn’t listen and told him about an idea of mine for the rest of the bus journey - an idea, I might add, that has never yet seen the light of day. A coincidence?

Let’s put it to the test. I’m going to pitch four ideas to The Asylum – the production company behind such tours de force as Mega Shark vs Giant Octopus and Almighty Thor – but only mention two of them right now, in this very blog. Then we shall see which ones they liked, and whether they were the ones discussed herein. The other two ideas I haven’t mentioned to a soul, except my mum and someone that came round to enquire about my census form. So here goes.

Idea One
                                     Under Wraps 

That’s not its title, it’s one of the secret ones.

Idea Two

This is inspired by their predilection for stories about gigantic aquatic beasts. I’ve always been fascinated by pistol shrimps, and their incredible abilities. Check them out here. Then I thought, why not mix this in with the doom-laden apocalyptic visions that seem so hip right now? What’s bigger than 30 foot shrimps taking over the entire planet! Here’s the pitch.


Fact: In the Indian Ocean live the ultimate killers – Pistol Shrimps equipped with gigantic claws that release imploding fireball bubbles at the temperature of the sun, killing their prey instantly. Thankfully, the bastards are only four inches long.  

Fiction: Imagine if a hijacked nuclear submarine crash landed into a Pistol Shrimp colony, spraying its glunk all over their nests. Imagine if the little bastards became big bastards, thirty feet long bastards. That’s right, we’d be fucked!

Idea Three
                                The Cat’s Pyjamas 

see Idea One.

Idea Four

This one’s a bit leftfield and I’m not sure about this title – I might yet go for 'Eel Boy', ‘The River Man’, ‘Onanism and the Jungle’ or ‘Hero’. If you message me in the next 32 hours you may influence my decision. Also, I’ve named the main protagonist after a friend of mine, coz he has such a cool name – let’s hope he doesn’t mind! Here’s the pitch.


Jimmy Stroker is a real wild child. When his anthropologist parents died in the middle of the Amazonian jungle little Jimmy Stroker was left abandoned to the elements. 

But brought up by a group of friendly river dolphins in a eutrophic ox-bow lake full of electric eels Jimmy became quite a man. 

Fuelled by his wormy hosts discharges Jimmy grows up with the ability to harness electricity at will! The downside of this is that all that energy has to go somewhere, and jimmy develops a chronic masturbation and invertebrate molestation habit. 

Desperate for human contact Jimmy locates a village deep in the jungle. Overcome by shyness, and unable to speak anything other than Dolphin, Jimmy takes to watching them from the bushes. His activities have not gone unobserved by the slightly fearful villagers, by whom he is given many monikers – among them ‘The Wanker in the Woods’, ‘Electric Juan’ and ‘Eel Boy’.

Things take an unexpected turn when the villagers are kidnapped by Western developers, keen for cheap labour on their deforestation programme. 

Jimmy returns to find the village empty and goes ballistic. But using his incredible senses, notably his eyes, he deduces what happened and vows to hunt the perpetrators down. 

When he exacts his revenge, with a series of well aimed lightning strikes and fireballs, he frees the villagers and returns to their home a hero. 

All live happily ever after?  Wrong.  

The head of the Western developers, Dave von Davidson, survives the attack and goes home to the U.S. to tell them of this incredible wild man. Just as Jimmy looks set to finally consummate his earthly desires with the entire village it is attacked by an elite U.S. squadron and Jimmy is taken. 

Drugged and groggy, Jimmy wakes up to find himself in Area 51. What is he going to do? 

The only thing he knows – go mental! Spraying man fat and electric bolts with gay abandon Jimmy fights his way out of the compound, finally making his escape in an alien spacecraft.

Exhausted, and in his refractory period, Jimmy falls asleep, only to finally wake up on an alien planet – inhabited by river dolphins!

This nicely sets up a possible sequel –‘Return to Earth’, or ‘The Wanker’s Back’, something like that.

I’m pretty happy with them both, think they are strong and contemporary, as are the other two, so, here goes - wish me luck folks!

p.s. I’m going to pitch them tomorrow so if you have any comments make it today!