Turning pro in less than 362 days!

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

Wednesday, 29 June 2011

How to Get a Shitload of Followers on Twitter

You might remember a little while ago I moaned about my twitter experiences thus far - http://goo.gl/G1GE1 .

However, as you also know, despite persistent and emphatic advice to the contrary, I’m not a quitter – and neither should you be– to succeed as a writer the ability to work the dendritic, nebulous network of twitter is a must.

And, even if I do say so myself, it looks like I’m going all the way. When I wrote that somewhat hot-headed blog I was only sitting on three followers - roughly the same as I had on here. However, now I’m up to 48 45 Gartholomites and ready to push on.

There appear to be many approaches to picking up followers on Twitter – here’s a few I’ve discovered.

1) Make up a hilarious or topical moniker. For example, call yourself the Queen_ Mum’s_Bum – then all your tweets can be “Quack” “Grimf” or “Swiddle”. People go ape shit for this. Even better, claim to be a famous person. There’s a David Cameroon on there –which is someone pretending to be a cross between David Cameron and a macaroon, and is very funny. Does anyone know what a macaroon is? Is it a cake or a biscuit? It looks like a biscuit, but tastes like a cake. Anyway, I don’t think Danny DeVito is on there yet – fuck it – claim it and be him!

2) Hit the trends. Whatever it is that’s trending, write it down on a notepad, put the kettle on or, if like me you don’t have one, put a small saucepan on to boil. Don’t forget to cover it with a lid to improve efficiency. Then just stand there trying to think up the best possible response you can. If that doesn’t work, and you have a back garden then maybe try having a walk round that. If you’re wearing suitable clothes then you could also try having a walk around the streets near where you live. I’ve only tried this once, people didn’t like it when they saw me marching up the street in my pants (fuck ‘em I can wear what I want) with a pen in my hand, laughing out loud as I looked them in the eye. I wasn’t laughing at you, arsehole, I was laughing through you. If you choose this approach then you need to think in one of two ways.

2.1)Funny – you need to hit the trends with something very, very funny that other users will see, laugh out loud at and, hopefully, retweet. Before you know it you have ten followers. It helps if you have one of those hilarious monikers for this, as there is a top tweet category. There’s someone called Lord Voldermort something or other, and every time he tweets something on a trend, no matter how shit, he always ends up as a top tweet. If it works for that cunt then it can work for you.

2.2)Needy. Tweet something on there that will make people follow you, just to keep tabs on you and make sure you’re ok. You will need to keep an eye on these followers on your timeline, though – if you see one them tweet something like – “finally getting my binoculars and machete today” then you know that they might not have your best interest at heart, and may be following you for some more nefarious reason. Some people just like to know others are in pain. Unfollow and block.

3) Just follow, follow and follow again! Find someone on there. Follow them. Then follow all their friends, then follow the friends of theirs friends. Lots of these people will be constantly monitoring their friends list and will notice the hike up from 13 to 14 followers – “who the fuck is that?” They will look at your profile and will see your brilliant moniker and incredibly witty italicised bio and think – yes, I want to be associated with that person and follow you in return! Some people are just so shit scared that they will follow you just so you don’t unfollow them! I would suggest this is a good tactic for those of you that wish to pursue a path in middle management, and like drinking bottles of lager at an angle of 43°

4) Target the big guns. This is my approach. As I discussed in my last twitter blog you only have a small window with celebs – you have to be there and ready with a line within 15 nanoseconds of their delivery. You have to remember- there are a lot of cunts, just like you, out there, vying for that same attention and accolade. Get in there first – make sure they read yours before anyone else’s. Here’s how I worked my way up to 48.

First hit – Jonathan Ross.

He was going on about doing some research for some project or another so, quick as a flash, I tweet.

His reply doesn’t really make any sense. I didn’t show any interest in what he was up to, so I think it may have actually been meant for another tweeter. Nevertheless it had my name on it, and fooled someone else, gaining me one follower.

Next up –Graham Linehan – the writer of Father Ted and The I.T. Crowd. This was going to be harder. Wossy tweets anyone – he’s a nice guy and easily bored, so you’d expect that. Linehan is a clever man, well into his politics, so I knew I was going to have to step it up a level.

He had just tweeted about new online censorship laws being passed in France so I tweeted this –

A ha! That was way beyond my wildest expectations, and it was only my fifteenth try at getting a response from him. It’s at that point that you begin to wonder if you’ve been blocked or not. Think positive and keep going. Next up an Irish twitter demigod – the incredibly quick witted Dara O’Briaiain.

He tweeted something about a documentary on electricity. I knew how fast he was, so I gambled – I didn’t watch the link and got straight in there – I had to be one of the first few. I knew Tesla was an almost mythical figure in electrical circles, so tweeted ‘God, Tesla gives me the horn’. This was the response.

It was only afterwards that I realised I’d made a joke. At the time I just panicked and tweeted the first thing that came into my head –that Tesla is one of the few men, dead or alive, that I find physically beguiling. Which is ironic considering he was celibate. Is that odd? No, not really, it only adds fuel to the fire. Anyway, his half of the tweet turned it into something very funny – he is laughing at me, but also with me. It sent my profile through the roof – up to 48. For about fifteen minutes I got an idea of what celebs must go through every time they are on twitter. They put something out there, and are immediately bombarded by thousands of people. My @ box was chocka with people tweeting me and my new mate Dara with witty comebacks. I had to go and have a wank to calm down.

If any of you are of a religious leaning get yourself on twitter and try your damnedest to get a celeb response. If you do, you’ll understand why an omniscient God is a practical impossibility.

So, that’s my advice, and my progress thus far. My next challenge, with which to launch myself into the magical one hundred followers club, is to get a retweet from one of the holy twinity – Charlie Brooker, Stephen Fry, Derren Brown and Rio Ferdinand.

Holy shit – I’ve just discovered something absolutely unbelievable. This’ll shake your socks off.

I need to do a bit more research, but if I’m right… shit…

Wednesday, 22 June 2011

The Price of Fame

Hmm, in all this excitement I’ve just realised that I still haven’t heard back from The Asylum - anyone know how long these things take? It might be that they’re thinking figures and leaving me to sweat for a bit, trying to drive my price down. That won’t work though – I know how much these ideas are worth.

It’s a good idea as an aspiring screenwriter to know how much you’re going to charge for your services before you get yourself out there. If not, those producers and directors are going to eat you up for breakfast. Actually, you’re going to be eating them up for breakfast. In other words, they are going to wake you up by putting their willies in your mouth. You will have to swallow down whatever they produce. In a metaphorical, if not literal, sense anyway.

And don’t worry about all that Writer’s Guild bullshit, that’s for professionals, and you’re not a pro –yet. You might as well spend all day flinging your own shit at the wall as write an epic sci-fi that you intend to sell for half a million dollars. Don’t sell yourself short, but don’t price yourself out either. Here’s how I’m pricing myself on the two ideas I showed you that I pitched to The Asylum.


Uber Mega Pistol Shrimps vs The Earth

I tend to break the cost plan down into groups, it makes it easier to compartmentalise and remember things. Imagine you sat down to write a book about pencils, and tried to do it all in one go – you’d probably be spent after five or six pages. Now, imagine if you broke it down into different bits and then wrote about all of those in turn. You could write an introduction first, saying everything you like about pencils, then you could talk about lead extraction and cooling techniques, then about how they actually use graphite and not lead, maybe the odd tangent about famous cases of lead poisoning, possibly even water pipes and heating systems, then another bit about graphite extraction. The list is nearly endless. Now you’re looking at a 300 sheet page turner. That’s why authors tend to break their work down into chapters. Like I briefly mentioned, this is what I try to do when I’m costing myself. There’s a lot more to it than just thinking about how long I was working on something.


Notepad - £4.00 – expensive I know, but I wanted to splash out, make me feel like I was going somewhere. I had just been made redundant so I had the cash.

Pen – £1.00 – luckily I didn’t have to spend anything on this as I found one in the bookies.

Time - £5.75 – for this one, as it was early on in the challenge I priced myself at £7.50 an hour, a reasonable amount for a novice. It took me between 35 and 40 minutes to come up with the concept so I make that £5.75.

Imagination and knowledge - £3500 – I really don’t know how many people know about the existence of pistol shrimps – probably no more than a hundred. Out of these one hundred men, how many do you think have thought about them with a view to revolving a whole movie plot around them? No need to be vague here. One. Me. For that reason I’m pricing myself highly.


Running Total







Imagination & Knowledge


Grand Total


So, if they want to buy the concept for Pistol Shrimps, it’s going to set them back a little over three and a half big ones. If they want me to write it, well that’s going to be a lot more. Six weeks at 37 hours a weeks, continuing the rate of £7.50 an hour will give a total of £1665.00. Therefore, for the concept and the script it’s going to net me over five grand – not bad for my first screenplay!

For Eel Boy it’s a bit different. I got in a bit of a flow, so, as you can see, it’s worked out to an impressive degree of detail. I actually wrote the whole thing out in a 22 hour writing binge. Because I got in such a phenomenal flow half an hour of the time was spent whilst I should’ve been watching Doctor Who, so for this period I’ve given myself a double cost overtime rate.






Pro Plus






Custard Creams


Time (regular)


Time (overtime)


Imagination & Knowledge


Grand Total


Ok, so I already had the pen and the pad but, crucially, they don’t know that. I also had several tea bags left. I didn’t use as much imagination for this project, and practically no knowledge whatsoever, so this isn’t costed as highly. If they asked me to write this one I would charge an overtime rate, as I don’t really like the idea much – so that would be – six weeks, £10.25 per hour, 37 hours a week = £2275.50. So this one would work out at over three and a half grand, were I to sell the idea and the script – again, not bad for a first (or second) effort.

Anyway, I hope this helps you when you come to cost up your first efforts, and remember folks – keep the faith. Not a faith though – religion is for losers.

Tuesday, 21 June 2011

Don't Look a Gift Horse in the Mouth, or the Eyes

Just realised that it’s been a while since I last blogged, and the last one was left on a bit of a cliffhanger, to say the least! I can now confirm that I am still alive! If you don’t know what I’m on about then you’re obviously not a regular reader of this blog. It’s only relating to the last entry so go on, read it, this will still be here when you get back. Unless I’ve taken it down for a re-edit.

If you haven’t read the last entry and are still reading this one, ignoring my previous advice, then this is now going to feel like when you were 17 and at the pub with your friends, having spent the previous day away with your parent. Now returned you are an outsider, for having no longer lived and breathed every second with them - you are literally old news. They talk over and around you, about all the crazy shit that has happened in the last 24 hours. You shrivel up like a vicar watching Baywatch, your confidence drained away, or rather re-directed in fresh, justified hatred for your mother and Brighton’s Sealife Centre. You vow to kill all crabs.

Yeah, it was weird, and yes, I did fear for my life, particularly when the first person I met in there happened to look like a buzzard, pecking away at a bowl of nuts, talking into his phone about amnesia. But it was well worth it and –

The reason I’ve neglected this blog is because I’ve been too busy re-writing my sitcom, for the bloke I was telling you about. Boy has he made it now! He’s only been with this company for nine months, but he’s already pulled in over 100 million pounds in funding for them. It’s also an incredible Cinderella story.

It all kicked off for him at the Cheltenham Festival, which I’m sure all of you scribes and Gartholomites know, but for those that don’t, is the biggest and best screenwriting festival in the world. He was desperate to go, but couldn’t afford a ticket – he was working as a button presser at a chicken factory (wonder what Millgram would make of that), which doesn’t bring in enough when you have five children. So he offered to clean the toilets for them, in exchange for a free ticket. Amazingly, they agreed.

He spent the two weeks prior to the festival googling the images of everyone confirmed as a speaker, or notable attendant of the festival, so that, whenever they went in for a piss, he was ready to pounce on them with a script idea or a tissue. And it worked!

He got talking to this chap, don’t know if he did anything else to him, and, next thing you know, he’s an executive producer! It really is that easy. If you have the gift of the gob.

Anyway, so he’s telling me all these stories, people he’s met, films he’s financing etc. I tell him about my sitcom. He loves it, but thinks it will work better in America. So, I’ve changed it to be about American Football, a sport I know even less about, unfortunately – it’s now called A Game of Four Quarters – hope they have that phrase in the U.S. He said he’ll pitch it for me to some top U.S. execs that he now knows. As an act of faith, and to prove I’m serious about wanting to make it as a writer, I have to stump up his flight money to L.A., which he’ll give back, once we get green lit.

My mum always said to me never look a gift horse in the mouth, and that’s what came flooding back to me as I stood looking at him, and his offer, and his incredible horse-like head. It was like one of those magical twist moments at the end of a David Fincher movie. I knew I had to go for it.

Ok, it’s going to eat up the last of my redundancy money but, fuck it, you only live once, and this could be the event that launches me into the big time! Next time you see me, I might be snuggling up to Phoebe from Friends!

Oh, and I did a film review for some cool guys – it’s here - http://goo.gl/0yiIg

Tuesday, 7 June 2011

Stranger Than My Own Fiction

Wowsers, I’ve just had some really weird shit happen to me, and I wondered if any of you fellow scribes have had similar experiences? You know the adage life imitating fiction? Like ‘The Only Way Is Essex’. Although, to be fair, that’s fiction imitating life, which in itself is a fictional representation of life, imitating fiction, set in a fictional county wherein life is frequently mistaken for fiction, and vice versa. Well anyway, my life has decided to take it one step further and imitate my fiction. See normally, for a writer like myself I stick to the principle of ‘write what you know’.

There’s no way I’m going to ever pen any of that smug country estate shit, with toffs topping each other in such convoluted fashions, in the style of Julian Fellowes, a man who holds himself in such regard that he has actually injected helium into his skull to prevent him from ever looking downwards. Or Richard Curtis, or any of those bumfluff merchants. God look, my life has no crisis, let’s invent one! Wow, and this vulnerable crack creates such a wacky character. I don’t have colonic irrigation, I just watch ‘Love, Actually’ and puke and shit myself clean. Shit, this is a writing diary entry rapidly turning into a rant. I need to think of Bladerunner for five seconds and get back on track.

So, the other day I was dusting off an old script about an aging tramp who receives a visit from a mysterious benefactor, who offers him a wager, lifting him out of his eternal miasma and into a brave new dawn of opportunity. I suppose I must’ve fallen asleep watching Trading Places, which would also explain the cum that was everywhere.

Anyway, I was literally on my first day back on it, encrusted with jizz, no real prospects for the future, not far off being a tramp myself, which is probably why I thought about starting to write it again, when I get a call from someone I hadn’t heard of for a number of years. Do I still remember him? How could I forget him. Cold, fish eyes, moist skin and the hands of a bear. Anyway, said that I did. He said did I remember the wager we agreed at the producer’s fair five years ago? Initially, I thought it might have something to do with his patio, and racked my brains furiously, but apparently we had entered into a tryst – the first one to make it has to make sure the other one does. I told him I hadn’t but to try me again in another five years. He laughed. Wasn’t sure if that was good. Said he’d made it, silly! He was grateful for all the help I’d given him and was going to sort me out.  

The help I’d given him? I remember him sitting near me at the back of a script-writing evening course I was attending at the time. Every time I looked over at him he would already be staring right through me, like he was sizing up whether he could fit all of me inside him, like some starved python. But eventually he plucked up the courage to speak to me. “Do I scare you?” were his first words. Who the fuck opens with that? I’m pretty sure even Hitler didn’t use that one. I said that he didn’t, but the guff I involuntarily released betrayed me. He gave me several of his scripts to read, which I said would be a pleasure. I was happy just to be leaving there alive. They were bloody awful, but I respectfully gave him encouragement and feedback, which I guess he must’ve been grateful for.

Sometimes the whole class would go to the pub, and I would always be the one left sitting with him, whilst the others binge drank at the bar, or had really long poos in the toilet. I still couldn’t properly assimilate him into my mind, it just wouldn’t happen - all I could ever think of was getting a thermometer and sitting it in him to make sure he was warm blooded. But I guess all this must’ve meant something to him.

So, fast-forward on, and I’ve arranged to meet him in London, at some swanky members club of which he is now a privileged member. We’re going to talk about what he’s up to, and what he can do to help me out, to launch me into the big time. I can’t get out my head that he hasn’t made it, or maybe he has but for the last five years all he’s thought about is a terrible sleight that I levelled at him, that’s been eating away at him, motivating him for the ultimate revenge,  maybe the unhelpful destruction of his blatant rip-off of The Wicker Man, only set on Canvey Island, which I’m sure raised a chuckle from the rest of the class, cruel, stupid me,  maybe this swanky club isn’t so much a member’s bar as an elitist, reptilian snuff joint, and that my pursuit of fame, in its hypocritical guise, is leading me straight into the jaws of death.

I wish I hadn’t smoked so much puff in my formative years.

Friday, 3 June 2011

Writing Comedy Gold

The other day I stumbled upon a really useful book. I say stumbled upon, I actually nicked it from the bookshelf of my best mate, Jimmy Stroker. What the hell it was doing there, I’ve no idea. The man’s as funny as an online MMORPG franchise that allows you to spend several years of your life laboriously building up a kiss-ass orc, only to have a fucking Deathwing do a fiery piss over the lot.

I’m not going to mention the name of the book, as I’m not sure if I’m allowed to do that – though I can tell you if you private message me, I guess. All I can say is that it’s not the classic “How to Sustain a 50 Year Career with Only Two Jokes” by Freddie Starr and that it’s very useful, and has more tips than a cat with three dicks.

As you know, I’ve just finished writing a sitcom, which I’m very excited by, so I thought I would help you to work on your own comedy by illustrating some of the book’s points using scenes from my own sitcom. How does that sound? Fucking awesome? 

Thought so.

Okay, so the main point, without which you don’t have anything, is Anxiety. This isn’t necessarily pointed towards the characters you are creating, although I find anxious characters absolutely hilarious (which is 65% why I go to my panic attack meetings), more towards the audience itself. You want them to feel anxiety, to be with (or against) the character, to feel the tension that the protagonist is feeling.

Before I show the scene from my sitcom that I think illustrates this brilliantly I should just explain a little bit about its premise.

 It’s called A Game of Two Halves, and it’s the first ever sci-fi football sitcom. It centres around the antics of East Pork United’s manager - identical twins Keith and Colin Halve who, due to a curious wormhole in the team’s stadium, both only exist for half the time. For the other half they are packed off to a very boring dimension. The tension, and thus the humour, comes from the fact that one of them is a tactical genius, whilst the other is a total bell-end, and the fact that nobody ever knows which is which, or even that there should be a which is which!

I’m not really into football - if truth be told I fucking hate it. Bunch of mentally retarded and insecure fucks getting unbelievably rich by running around on some grass, kicking a ball – are you taking the piss? Do not let children see this shit, it will confuse them. What do you want to be when you’re older? A thick, obnoxious cunt with no imagination, or literacy, but a demon left foot.  Exorcist? No, footballer.

You may, therefore, be surprised to hear that the idea itself was suggested by a friend of mine.  I was captured by the wormhole – you could say it sucked me in to its gravitational vortex! I’m relying on my mates for research into the football parlance, so if there are any inconsistencies there, whilst I’d like to know about it, I wouldn’t like to be blamed for it.

Here’s the scene.

The Halves’s team are one-nil down with seconds to go in the game, and its Keith in charge (he’s the cunt). The crowd are restless and have started throwing things on to the pitch. Not only that but a megalomaniac alien has got into the stands through the wormhole, and he’s been threatening to blow the whole stadium sky high - only nobody thinks he’s for real. 

Keith’s fitness coach, Limey, approaches.

            What’ya gonna do guv? There’s less
            than one minute on the clock, barely
            enough time for a wormburner from deep...

            Who are you, my fuckin’ wife?
                     (to the players)
            Just fucking give it to Houdunnit!

A gigantic alien frog in the crowd opens its mouth.

                        ALIEN FROG

            And will someone shut up that mouthy
            aquatic bastard!

Limey looks confused.

            Guv, Houdunnit’s your assistant manager.
            And he’s had to rush home to attend to
            the needs of his wife, they’re trying for 
            a baby, remember?

            Well then, who’s that cunt?

            That’s the ref, guv.


At this point anyone watching will be practically shitting themselves, both from the hilarity of Keith’s stupidity, but also because they know that if he doesn’t turn into Clive and negotiate with the alien they’re all dead! That’s anxiety! Incidentally, if you want to know how that scene finishes leave a comment and I’ll post the conclusion.

The next key ingredient is Surprise.  This can come in many forms, but basically, you’re looking to set something up for the audience, and defy expectations. A lot of the time this can be achieved with running jokes.

In A Game of Two Halves one particular running joke concerns the assistant manager Harry Houdunnit, who is always on the end of Keith’s cruel jibes and practical jokes. Already in this particular episode Harry has been burned, electrocuted and made to expose himself to members of a nunnery, so when it’s time for the half-time talk and Keith puts a bananaskin down in the doorway, expecting the arrival of Harry we can see it all happen. But it’s not Harry that wanders through – but the referee – who slips and knocks himself out. Oh dear. Suddenly they have a problem –and guess what - it’s Harry who has to dress up and impersonate the ref for the whole second half  – will the opposition, the crowd and the TV crew buy it? Not only is it a surprise, but it builds up the anxiety massively. It should also clarify the scene written above.

Next we have Hostility.

I’ve alluded to this in the surprise section, so there’s no need to recount one of these occasions. However, it is important to note that hostility doesn’t just mean aggressiveness directed from one character to another, although this does get me every time, but to an external inspiration, too.

For example, in A Game of Two Halves I am able to fully vent my disgust at the football scene per se, and those that watch and care about it. In a later episode, which I have sketched out (no one will touch a sitcom sample without the whole series sketched out, so if your idea doesn’t stretch out for at least six episodes you haven’t got a sitcom on your hands. Which might make it a feature film instead – alright – big bucks!) the club hold a charity fundraising quiz night in the hospitality suite. This will give me a great chance to not only expose the ludicrous amounts of money grabbing twats in sport, corporatocracy in general, but also the general lack of imagination, knowledge and intelligence found in almost every single football fan. It will be done in an ironic way, so the idiots that like football can laugh, as if laughing at every football fan but themselves.

A massive weapon for the sitcommoner, and the next thing on our list, is Incongruity.

When something is unexpected, out of place, nonsensical, abstract, surreal, whatever word you know, it’s all the same – fucking hilarious!

Take this example from A Game of Two Halves.

I think you’re all getting the picture about Keith – he’s aggressive, cruel, egotistical and a thoroughly awful football manager. But we haven’t said much about his identical brother Clive. What we do know is that he is a brilliant football mind – one quick glance at the pitch and he knows exactly what it will take to get the ball to touch cloth. What you don’t know yet is that he is a homosexual in a happy and fulfilled single sex relationship.

Can you imagine then the anxiety, surprise, hostility and incongruity that transpire when, as he walks through the door for a candlelit dinner with his partner at the grounds corporate suite, the wormhole kicks in and transforms him into Keith?!

There’s no incongruity there you say – Keith punches the man out and ruins Clive’s life. No so. Keith has the time of his life and throws himself into this unexpected twist. He only punches him later – when a needless event re-establishes the status quo. Set something up and defy the audience expectation.

Finally, we have Truth. As Homer so eloquently puts it –“it’s funny coz it’s true”. And so it is. Think of all those stupid little things in your life, that you would do a stand up routine about if you didn’t have that horrendous tick and body odour problem, and integrate them into your script.

I must admit to finding fault in just about everything, and when I finished the first draft I was amazed to find it was 136 pages long – that’s 106 pages too many! After I had cut out a few of these little truths I managed to get it down to 34 – much better! Here’s an example.


Keith is sitting down with his assistant Harry, in the cafe. It’s quite nice, but the decor could do with a bit of a spruce up. Not a greasy spoon as such, but heading that way.

Harry goes to take a swig from his coffee when he sees the dead fly that’s floating in it.

            Waiter, waiter there’s a dead fly 
            in my coffee!

Keith’s face is practically bright red from suppressing laughter ( we know from an earlier scene that he had been collecting dead flies from the hospitality suite windows).

           Shut up, you cunt, everyone’ll want one!

           Oh, very funny!

He goes to get up.

           Where are you going?

           To get a new one.

           Sit down you pleb! Dont you know what 
           they do to the cups of complainers?


           Let’s just say it’ll come back with more
           than a fly in it.

           Nah! That’s just an urban legend!

           You’ll sit down and drink, or I’ll fucking
           do it myself!

Harry meekly sits back down and takes a swig from his coffee, wincing.

           Good boy.

Keith takes a contented and smug sip from his coffee, but immediately spits it out in disgust - all over Harry!

                (getting to his feet)
           This is fucking cold!

He stamps around the cafe with his cup.

           Cold! You’ve sold me a cold cup of coffee
           you dead-eyed, slack jawed little prick!

He slams the cup down on the counter.

           I’m really sorry sir.

           Not as sorry as I'll be when I'm on prison
           food for sticking that fuckin oven up your

The assistant quickly takes the cup into the back, whilst Keith taps his foot impatiently.

We cut to the kitchen where we have a quick montage of -

A waitress farting into the coffee.
The cook pulling down his trousers and doing a little poo in it.
The assistant himself jizzing in it.
Two girls then come out of nowhere and drink the contents of the one cup before puking it back into the one cup.

Back to -

The assistant comes back round the front with the cup of ‘coffee’.

Keith dips his finger in, to test the temperature.


I hate it when they do that! Which I why I always take a pipette to the café with me and take a 5ml sample of every drink I have, which I then pass on to my friend Toby, who works at a biomedical lab and processes it for me.

Ok, so let’s recap with a nice diagram.

Ok, so to sum up Anxiety, created by Surprise, Hostility, Incongruity and Truth leads to an idea. It also mentions brevity, but I think Ricky Gervais and everything that has been on BBC3 this year have killed that tip off, so we’re binning that.

Actually, I’ve just seen what that all spells out, so, on second thoughts, I’d recommend ditching the element of surprise.