How To Write A Sitcom, Youffs and Karma

Forgive me. I've been a bit of an old shitter and deserted my admiring millions for longer than one intended. I'd love to tell you I've been serving a small custodial sentence for assaulting ditherers. Or for attempting to shoplift the entire vodka section of Tesco. Or even that I've been recuperating from the Mother of all Benders.
    But it's far worse than that: I've been working on my sitcom. And worserer than that - I'm making progress. I know, hard to believe, but it's true. Admittedly, I started off a bit howsyerfather and flapping around like a haddock that's just had the bath plug pulled on it, but then I met Marc. And Marc made everything better for me.

Marc Blake. My hero.

When I win my first award, this fucker will be getting a mention.

(Then I'll tap him up for a few bob, seeing as I'd just

endorsed his book. And his courses look pretty good too.

And then he can get the first couple of rounds in.)

So yes, it's happening. And as it turns out (and according to Marc) I was doing okay in the first instance. So why I spent £14.99 on his bollocks, I'll never know. And let's not forget, children, £14.99 can buy you a litre of vodka. Maybe I'll sue the fucker.

   One casualty though - avid readers of this blog may well remember the pub cat who blatantly (and without a kiss yer arse or anyfing) sprawled out on my sitcom notebook and basically just took the piss - is now dead. And as tempting as it was, it weren't me. Although I do wonder if there is any connection between this (semi-tragic) event and a scrawled post-it-note in Marc's handwriting that was stuck to my vodka chalice. It said, 'Diss my book and you're dead, bitch'. Nah. Can't be. Me? Luscious moi? He must be talking about a doggie. And as long as it ain't Wally Dog (or a couple of other buddies) he can do what the fuck he likes. Fucking authors. And shysters.

   So. Christmas. What a load of bollocks. Can't stand it. Don't do it. The hypocrisy and conformity make me want to gag. And don't even start me on paper hats. But I do do drinking. And I do do things that are pleasing on the eye. And that helps me through the annual horrorfest that is Christmas.

Look everybody!

A drinking establishment with its best outfit on.

And then, to prove that I'm really not a totally grumpy cow about Christmas (ahem), I went to Bath. And had an ogle of their Christmas market.

They don't fuck about in Bath.

Chalet stalls all over the gaff (selling overpriced shit that you

could happily live the rest of your life without ever owning) and green

fluorescent paint lobbed all over the Roman Baths. Quality. 

And then I found this total legend of a tree.

He'd shaken all his Christmas decorations off him,

and told organisers to 'Stop fucking abharrrt'.

I don't think this tree likes Christmas very much either.

Imagine my delight when I stumbled across this man

tossing his fudge around in a shop window (and therefore

affording me several golden opportunities to nudge

curious cherub-faced children in the ribs).

And just when you think things can't get any better. Lo. The good lord sent me a load

of youffs stuck in a lift. (This was in one of those cinema/eatery complexes that drunken

old shits like me shouldn't be allowed into). Furthermore, hopeful that someone might

recognise one of this mob and ignite maximum piss-taking and embarassment, I've made

this photo bigger. I'm all heart like that. Lastly, I think that lad at the back, to right, trying

to get me to score him a pint of lager was a bit fucking hopeful.

By now, I was ready for drink. So I ruthlessly did. And I went into wonderous pubs. All battered and old. And I heroically drank vodka in them. Like a true pro. But the problem with heroically drinking is that it costs vodka vouchers. And I'm a skint fucker. So I resorted to Plan B. Minatures of vodka. Strategically placed in my jacket pockets for bloody expensive pubs.

Can anyone spot the schoolgirl error I made here?

And finally. Finally. (And it took some doing). When I'd had my fill.

I ran off. As for some unknown reason, I have a habit (on occasion)

of running when I'm pissed. Although, I must confess, that upon closer

inspection, it does look as though I have also turned into a plane from

The Dam Busters.

Maybe you're thinking that my great time in Bath thawed me a bit about my attitude to Christmas. Nah. Did it fuck? Worse than that, my total disinterest meant that one evening as me and the old man set off for our midweek gym session and turned into the town square to get to our car, we were greeting not only by a cordoned off section of street and a big fuck-off notice saying Please Do Not Park Here On Wednesday Because The These Parrrts Christmas Fayre Will Be On, but also the sight of our car on the wrong side of the cordone. And right in front of the Town Hall. And surrounded by Christmas botherers. Lo.

This is the growing throng waiting for the Town Crier and some other old shit to come out and

turn the Christmas lights on. Which actually turned out to be one length of lights draped willy nilly

around the front of the Town Hall. And frankly, not worth the bus fare.

Shortly after, this fucking mob rocked up to sing Carols around our car.

Some of them had the audacity to look indignant and put out that our car was fucking

up the ging gang goolieness of the occasion. Did they give one flying fuck that I was missing

out on a lard-busting gym session. Did they fuck? Selfish pricks.

Now. I'm not sure if any of you humans believe in Karma. I think I do. And although I like to think of myself as a kind, warm hearted, fluffy bunnykins of a person, I think I got a little payback for not 'entering the Christmas spirit'. (Although, I've been magnificent drinking it. Boom. Boom). Lo.

I got mugged by these fuckers last night.

I was trying to gain access to the pissoir of my choice,

and they jumped me. And I fell over badly. And said the

'fuck' word. A lot. And then I had to get up. And walk into

the pub looking like a bellend. Who had just fallen over.

Oh the shame of it all.

And then, in a futile attempt to gain sympathy (large vodkas and diet cokes),

I had to show off some of many wounds and milk it a bit.

Not one fucker. Not one...

And because I'd been rolling and thrashing around on the tarmac,

as though fighting an imaginary crocodile, I was covered in shit and piss.

And still. Not one fucker. Not even a fucking sniff of the Vladivar bottle.

And if all that weren't bad enough, when I went out this very morning to score some milk I found this outside my front door. Done in that stuff you lob around your bathtub.

You can't make this shit up, can you?

Loyal followers of this blog will be aware of the magnitude of horror that has previously greeted me when limping out of my drum. I've had man mountains of horse shit. Every dog in Devon has pissed up the front of my gaff. Or dropped Mister Whippy dog turds outside. And now this. I don't know what to say.

Except, Merry Christmas everybody. Nuts and tangerines for all.

x

Being a creative type, my ego needs massaging on a level that is off the scale. So if you could find it in your heart to forward this on to someone you like (or maybe can't stand), lob it on Facebook or Twitter, or perhaps write the link in silicone outside people's houses, I'd be ever so grateful. Really I would. God bless you all.