Captain Comedy and the Oil Rig of Depression.

I was talking to a friend of mine the other day after a stand up night we both performed at about depression and comedy. She was telling me about she wants to do a set entirely about antidepressants and her experiences on them. I imagine this would be more than manageable (the fact she is legitimately funny also helps) as you could do plenty of 'before' and 'after' stuff or anecdotes or whatchamacallit.
But I've always liked the idea of writing a set purely about depression itself, and always came across some roadblocks or felt less than enthusiastic.

Is Depression funny? No, no it isn't. It's fucking awful and every day I want it to be eaten by swamp rats in front of its children.
But can you make jokes about it? You bet your ergonomically efficient Swedish bathroom you can.
I joke about my depression a lot, like...all the time. One of my favourites is that mine isn't cool depression. I don't have the tortured depression of an alcoholic composer or a scarred fireman, you know, the depression that wins you an academy award or gets people hot and/or bothered. I'm literally depressed because I've had far too many experiences that make me feel that the opposite sex decry my existence. That's booooooooring, bring on the mental instability over trying to write the perfect concept album or witnessing a plane plow into your childhood home.

I told a joke in my last set, that was a throwaway line about me not having a girlfriend because I've got 'a face like a marshland'. It was a quick aside, like a footnote, that got a big laugh. It didn't get a laugh because, I am attractive and this is ironic, ho ho ho. But because of the inane and strenuous comparison.
Ah, what was it they said about comedy and dissecting frogs?

You touch me and I'll break your fucking wrists.

I've always felt like it may be awkward for an audience, as if they feel out of their depth or uncomfortable whether or not to laugh or feel bad for whomever's performing. Patton Oswalt is a comedian who can describe his depression perfectly and still be fun on the bun. He's got a routine about prozac and depression that is both very funny and quite informative.

My usual approach is what I half-heartedly dub a 'sitcom-esque' style of joking. I say the actual symptoms or effect and then add an asinine or darkly comedic simile as a punchline. It's easy, it's lame, and quite a cheap joke. PAR EXAMPLE

I wake up most mornings full of self loathing....I must be the opposite of Rupert Murdoch.

I have serious anxiety issues due the fact nobody would want to have a serious relationship with me...just like North Korea.

I don't particularly like this approach as it tends to ignore the overall severity or depth of the condition, instead using it as a springboard for the comparative joke. The depression isn't funny, Rupert Murdoch being a tool is or North Korea's horrendous and farcical political standing.

"What are you wearing? The government mandated unisex jumpsuit? I'm so turned on."

It's quite hard to get a punchline from 'I'm an unhappy individual' but there's something quite satisfying and cathartic (ish) about trying to, as opposed to wallowing in an Indian village sinkhole of grief.
Last year, during one of my worse weeks, the only thing I listened to was Fleetwood Mac's 'Tango In The Night' constantly on repeat. I must have listened to it 5 times a day like some Soviet reconditioning programme. The very notion of listening to anything else was beyond comprehension, like a sentient programming system being given a paradox.
Something like that might make a good anecdote, or a good piece of comedy, because you know...it's kind of funny, but also highlights how fucking wacky and ridiculous some of the symptoms are.

I think the best format for it is a sitcom, where it has the ability to bounce off two characters and we have a sense of comparison and perspective. It's why shows like Peep Show and Curb Your Enthusiasm work well, we laugh and we chuckle, but we also realise, actually, these guys have some pretty serious issues and problems. Unfortunately, hardly any mainstream comedies feature characters with notable mental health concerns.
I think having two characters back and forth dialogue is probably funnier than one person just anecdoting (not a verb) a conversation they had. PAR EXAMPLE...AGAIN.

Character 1: Oh no, this person I slept with isn't calling me.
Character 2: Today I wore only my dressing gown and ate some gherkins out of a jar in the space of an hour...but your thing..that...that is also bad.

Character 1: Me and my boyfriend don't know where to go on holiday!
Character 2: *Annoyed look, mimes shooting self in the head*

They're not brilliant jokes, but you could probably tell who the depressed one is. Which, brings me to the point I mentioned at the start, about trying to turn jokes that are character responses into a more straightforward stand up style.

Or you know, just do some shit about nerds and Nintendos and Bazinga and Girls r dumb and the indian guy cant talk to girls lololololEMMYSANDPRAISE

So, what was my point again?
Oh yeah, is depression a funny topic?
Yeah, definitely. I've joked about slavery, terrorism and suicide, I reckon I could muster up the ability to joke for 10 minutes about my kuh-ray-zee ways. But I'm always full of self doubt or trepidation at the idea. Maybe it's just the awkwardness of the topic, or the reasons I've mentioned above about how it might not translate so well as a one-man show shtick and might grow tired soon. There's also the niche factor that 10 minutes might bore some folks who aren't aware/have similar problems, and then it's just inside jokes with occasional chuckles at punchlines about farting or eating pickled food out of jars.
But hey, I have no problem joking about it openly on the internet (Because I am a smart man thing) so maybe the next logical step is a complete set about how I hate my stupid face and hug like a scarecrow coming to terms with his own existence.

It might not actually turn out so.......depressi-

*This joke has been cancelled by the federal bureau of good taste*

Happy anniversary anti-depressants! Here's a gift voucher.

I was on my bike to work the other day, and my brain, apropos of nothing said.

"HEY PETE. YOU'VE BEEN ON ANTI-DEPRESSANTS FOR 18 MONTHS NOW! THAT'S A YEAR AND A HALF! LIKE AN ANNIVERSARY!"
I was then all like "Shutup! You're not even my real brain! You don't control me!" then I threw a bottle of fanta at a family and did a kickflip off my bike into the beating intensity of the sun.

But yeah, that's something I've realised, and I felt like writing about it, in the case it's 'cathartic' or something less profoundly sobering. Some people who don't know as long, have picked up on various things or ticks, so this might help a few folks out.

Do not ride your bike into the sun unless you are certifiably RADICAL.

For the new faces here (Hey! Hello! Bonjour! *Something in Klingon*) I should say I'm not using depressing in the way that some people use 'literally' or 'legend'. I'm literally (Nice callback!) depressed. Diagnosed and all that modern medical jazz!
I have been for, well 18 months, although to be honest it's pretty much been there for the past five years, and was only 'twitter verified' as official last year.
So, let's catch up shall we? You...you are interested right? I bought slides...I bought slides.

And here's where I felt the cold futility of socialising. Ooh alllso, also...not as big as you'd think it is.

So, I'm still awful with regards to women. I'm a nervous, anxious, self-doubting worry, that I hope doesn't translate as sociopathic-makes-chairs-out-of-skin obsessive. I am not cool around the opposite sex, I feel I should make this clear. I'm not some...deranged, shotgun under the trench coat (Don't look good in them) manic obsessive...I'm just an anxious fellow.
I have no problem being alone, I'm more than happy to fortress of solitude it up with some sandwiches and some Pearl Jam.
I'd like somebody to want to kiss my face every once in a while, that's not a character flaw, that's a combination of very low self esteem and me, shockingly, being an warm human being.
As it stands, I've never felt like that. I'm often being made to feel like the opposite, (Hence the ole anti-depressants, sometimes I put them in food and pretend I'm a Dog), not very interesting or memorable and as sexually attractive as a documentary on tracheotomies. I'm often feeling like I'm not the sort of person somebody would find themselves wanting to be close to, like a serial killer or a barrel of acid and contempt.
 The thing is if I meet somebody I want to be close to, or makes me not want to be alone, and it inevitably doesn't happen, THAT is when I get affected, NOT me being by myself.
If I get rejected or turned down or stood up, or dumped in a text message (My  personal 'Ozymandias'), it does affect me a lot. It shoots a crossbow bolt of +2 reinforcement at one of the main driving forces of my depression and gives it something to feed off.  

Quick, roll a saving throw! 9, your sarcastic remark fails.

I've had a situation like that happen just recently and my depression treats it like the media treats video game related violence. It dissects, probes and devours every minute detail, no matter how relevant, and uses it against me, and it's depressingly (HA!) effective. I do get people saying 'be confident innit', but I've had a ridiculously high amount of bad experiences, that trying to focus on the good is like fighting a spartan offensive with a supersoaker and bad language, it's a very uneven and affecting ratio not in my favour.
So just...I dunno, bear with me. I have no problem with being told to shut up if at least you understand. No "Don't mope", "Get over it", "I'd be fine!". Don't say that. Ok. It's like reprimanding a guy with no legs because he can't charlston. "But I can Charlston! Why can't he? HOW DARE HE!"
I hate writing stuff like this, I always feel it's whingy nonsense, like when Alan Partridge has his Toblerone addiction and is 'clinically fed up, boo hoo'. But, self loathing's one of the symptoms, so I suppose it's justified. PARADOX.

I googled Paradox and a sex filled manga came up. I loathe the internet with embers of contempt.

Honestly, I think depressions made me funnier. There is the old adage about making jokes to impress the opposite sex, but I've never had anybody attracted to me because of my sense of humour, and it's more a self validating sense of security. If I can think of a joke I like, something witty, subversive, or just a quick thinking spark of stupidity, it's like collecting a ring in my Sonic The Hedgehog green Hill depression zone. Sure, it's only one ring, but at least one ring stops me dying by falling down the screen when I run into a forest creature converted into a robot spike anus.

Prove me wrong. Prove me wrong.

I get people who find me being open very uncomfortable or awkward for them. "Oh, I don't think you should say that Peeeeeeeter." "Gee whiz, that sounds a bit awkward."
I don't care, it's my mental well being and life here. I've no problem discussing it, and if you find it uncomfortable (like cringing when you see a homeless person) it's your problem. Besides, there's people out there who hate other people based on religion, skin colour and even music taste, I'm sure there's more mentally concerning fish to fry.
I hope that if somebody knows this, they'll think "Oh, he wasn't calling me twice a week because he's got a doll with my face on made of straw and insects. He's just not good with this sort of stuff and means well. WELL AIN'T THAT SWELL, SHUCKAMUP!"
I get worried if friends don't reply or initiate conversations for a few days, that's a hilarious side effect I get annoyed at for assuming that people loathe my existence as If I've 'Conan The Barbarian prologue' destroyed their village. I also apologise too much. That's a thing.

I've got a job now. That's good. I'm enjoying it and enjoy teaching folks and helping students learn, plus it gives me something to do during the day, so that's always funkadelic.
That said, I still hate mornings. I loathe getting out of bed. Not in a 'Oh but the bed's so warm and cosy and bllarrghhghgarl', but, to paraphrase Patton Oswalt in his short documentary 'To Be Loved and Understood' (A great piece about comedy and depression) waking up is like:
"Swimming up through calcified layers of regret and horrible decisions and self-loathing."
Obviously this is comedic hyperbole, he's a comedian is all. But no matter how I am the night before, I Groundhog Day every morning into a self loathing and miserable individual, like if it was written by Michael Haneke instead of Harold Ramis. I'm constantly aware I'm bummed out a lot, but it's like a deprecating parrot stapled to your shoulder, sure you get used to it, but you've rather he wasn't there to begin with. I can't do similies.
SSRIs are obviously a mixed bag, and have their naysayers, but so does anything these days. Medication, TV, ritualistic Blood God sacrifices. I know personally I'd feel a lot worse without them, and I'm glad I'm on them. They're not a deus ex machina pill, and they certainly don't make you feel 30s Disney Cartoon happy, but I'd still recommend them to anybody who feels they need them. Even if it's just giving you your appetite back or reducing the number of mornings you wake up shaking like a relapsing junkie. Still, I'd rather not be on them, and I'd rather not have been on them for a year and half. So hopefully there won't be a tedious re-iteration of these post in another 18 months. Because I won't be on them....not because I'm a lazy writer. I hope this post is of benefit to some people; I find it helps to write about this sort of stuff, I've nothing against being open, but if can also help somebody else then hey, awesome.
Anyhoo, how've you been?

I'm hoping this isn't me...re-iterating the same old nonsense and contributing nothing much of worth (Like LOST seasons 3-5), but at least clearing some things up a bit (Like LOST fan answers by dedicated nerd obsessives) .

Here's a joke to end.

What's a termite's favourite band?

THE DOORS.

HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA.

The final entry of Alistair Hill

The Journal of Alistair Hill, the night of November 17th 1908.

It is with uncertain graveness and anxiety I recall events that took place no less than 3 hours ago. On my way home from work at the University I encountered an individual in the Northmore Cemetery who struck me as peculiar and lacking poise. It is only now I regret such a cavalier and brash assumption. This figure, of unkempt dress and rigid mobility, was icy pale and his breathing seemed strained. I specialise in English literature and most educated men would deem my medical knowledge lacking, yet I approached the man and offered any assistance that may be required.
He turned to face me, his expression pained yet unaware. I barely had time to register this before he clutched my arm, lower his head, and tore into my arm without hesitation. An immense pain enveloped me, far more than one would expect from such a bite. It was a burning and acidic sensation that, even as I forced him off, only increased in vigour.
I called a warning, but he did not relent and immediately tried to grab me again. I pushed him off, and withdrew my revolver from my coat pocket. He paid it no notice and did not concede his attack. In a panic, and delirious from my wound, I fired at his chest. I heard the shot, I saw the impact and hole in shirt, but it did not impede him in the slightest. Terrified, I fired again. Two more shots to the chest that seemed as pitiful as the first. With no other course, I fled and headed home, a hand covering the hole in my arm.
I am no stranger to bites, as was the unfortunate implications of my tenure as orderly at the sanatorium during my earlier years. Those bites were always, savage, defensive reactions of uncontrolled minds, the teeth would barely break the skin as they were never fully intended. But this- this festering wound buried into my arm is from a man who was aware of nothing but planting his teeth into my flesh. For him it was a biological imperative, it was an act of pure instinct with no regret nor hesitation.
Even now, the wound has regressed into one of worse severity than it should be, it is as if it is alive, breathing hate and vitriol into my blood and even my conscious.
I am being besieged by savage and horrifying notions that present themselves with nothing but clarity and utmost rationality. It is only in my flickering moments of self-awareness that I can attest to how incorporeal and detestable they are, but it is only a matter of time before I feel disgust at myself for combating them! I have the urge, no, the need to hurt others, to bite them as that man had me. I feel as if feeding on the flesh of breathing men is the only thing that matters to me, that it will sate these nightmarish commands. To me it is like arguing against breathing or any action that is self sustaining, even now I feel revulsion as I write this, but I endeavour to record this alteration.
I feel there is no cure to this, nor any recourse I can take that shall remove this affliction. I...feel as if I shall become like that phantom in the cemetery. I am not sure if this is intoxicated speculation that harbours such notion, but I cannot deny the terrifying weight that such a notion has on me.
I have realised I cannot end my life. It's with sombre irony that whilst I had no problems with firing my gun at that beast in the graveyard, when I felt the metal against my own temple I could only recoil like a child. I was never a strong man, and this is one final mockery on my behalf. I did not marry, and my social circle was more professional than one built on friendship. I am alone, as I have been always. But it is only now I feel it. The cold steel and sickly sensation of isolation.
I shall head to the basement and wait. I will lock the door behind me and I will close myself to the world. I pray I shall write here again, I pray this entry shall not serve as my epitaph.

"What's that Sir?"

The inspector turned to the voice behind him.
"It's Hill's journal, the last entry was three nights ago. He claims to have been, attacked by some madman in the cemetery. Bitten even."

He closed the journal and placed a finger to his temple.
"He writes that he started to feel some changes, something inhuman and sick, almost as if he was losing his sense of humanity. I've no idea if it's overwrought hyperbole, but he writes with a sense of strict decorum, he truly believed it. The last part says he locked himself in the basement-"

The other officer spoke.

"That's what I was just about bring up Sir. The Basement door was open, chunks of wood missing. It was opened from the inside, crudely."

"How so? A weapon? A piece of pipe perhaps?"

"No, the wood's been gouged out, there's blood on the chunks." The officer stepped forward, his eyes wide.
"He used his hands Sir."

The inspector let loose a heavy breath.

"Right, get some men down here. I...I don't know why, but this worries me more than it should."

"And Hill Sir? Where would he be?"

The Inspector turned to the Journal on the desk and was silent for a few seconds.

"I have no idea."

Short story

“Hello.”

“Good day sir, how can I help?”

“I’d like to convert some money into euros, if that’s ok.”

“I’m sorry…I don’t think I’ll be able to do that?”

“But…you’re the post office.”

“Well yes-“

“Everything’s legitimate, there’s nothing dodgy going on if that’s…if that’s worrying you.”

“No, I’m sure it’s all above board sir. It’s just that…well…”

“Well, what?”

“You’re on fire.”

This was correct. The man at the front of the queue was a mannequin of orange and red, a crown of flames on his head that spread down around his body. He was, as the nonchalant cashier had attested to, on fire.

“I don’t see how that’s a problem. I don’t think I’m bothering anybody.”

He turned to a woman behind him.

“Excuse me, I’m sorry, but am I bothering you…in any way?”

She smiled awkwardly.
“Oh, no, not at all. I mean, as long as I stand back a few feet…then…yes, yes I have no problem with it.”

The cashier spoke again.

“Sir, I can assure you that, personally, I have no problem with this. It’s your life choice, and I respect it. I just, I don’t know what protocol is to serving men comprised of sentient flame.”

“Can you check with the Manager?”

“He’s out I’m afraid. Having lunch.”

“When will he be back?”

“His break is 75 minutes, he’s been gone for about 10 minutes.”

“Do you know where he is?”

“It’s Tuesday, so he might be at Subway.”

“There’s no Subway here. I think…I’ve forgotten.”

“He drives for about twenty minutes to the nearest one. He really likes Subway.”

“Understandable. Very well, so you’re saying I can’t convert my money?”

“Not here no, Sorry. I mean, unless you could turn your….fire off.”

“I don’t know how. Well, I forgot.”

“Oh that’s a shame, could you call somebody up?”

“I can’t use a phone in this current state.”

“But you can handle money and not singe people queuing near you?”

“The writing’s very lazy and loose, I’ll be the first to admit that.”

“Well that’s certainly a problem. You've got my sympathies, but I can’t stand here discussing the logistics and rules of your….situation with you, as interesting as that would be. I've got people to serve, I’m sure you understand that Sir.”

“Very well. Sorry for the bother, thanks anyway”

And with that, the burning figure walked out, euro-less.

It looked like he wouldn't be going to Belgium any time soon at this rate. After his diagnosis of early onset Alzheimer’s that morning, it certainly wasn't a good day to be the Human Torch.

Historectomy script

A while ago I started working on a comedy script for a BAFTA screenwriting competition. I stopped when I saw the entry fee was ridiculous and I wasn't too keen on some of the rules and guidelines. What I'm considering is sending it to the BBC writers room, so if people want to critique and comment the hell out of this it'd be much appreciated.

OPENING CREDITS SEQUENCE.
THE HOST APPEARS IN FRONT OF A LIBRARY-ESQUE STAGE SET, BOOKS, A ROARING FIRE, A GARISH AESHTETIC SENSE OF UNWARRANTED ENTITLEMENT.

HOST

Blight, misery, economic devastation, homelessness..ness, mass desolation on a scale far too shocking for man to comprehend. No, I'm not talking about a Nuclear Winter or a fire the size of Sweden, I'm talking about one of Earth's greatest foes, and one of History's most relentless fiends. An item so deadly it makes Joseph Stalin look like a wet blanket, damp with his own communist urine, a product of aforementioned terror.
I'm talking about Asbestos, all in this episode of Historectomy.

An overtly garish montage plays as the title sequence begins, scenes of destruction, chaos, and disasters en masse, a scene from the original Clash Of The Titans manages to sneak itself in.

The host is holding up a small vial of a white substance.

HOST

It's shocking isn't it? That some of the most important events in recent history have had this little substance play some role in it. It looks relatively safe and harmless, in fact I always carry some around with me to ward off Wood folk, but that's because it's safely contained in this vial, but what about when it isn't...in a vial. Where did it come from? What can it do? And what does it want?
To Explain more, here's a historian and official 'science person' for the 2009 Thailand Technology/Irrigation Expo, Professor Steven Book face.

P. BOOKFACE
(As he talks, we cut between the interview and various graphics, images and pieces of VT)

Hello, I'm Professor Steven Bookface, a great deal of my historical research has been based on the effects Asbestos has had throughout history. Asbestos comes from many different places; the most common source is from the Japanese creature known as Mothra. When Mothra flaps his wings, it releases a deadly neurotoxin into the atmosphere.
When this chemical is released into the air it travels upwards into the atmosphere, latching onto clouds, before coming down in rain and gravitating towards the nearest attic or High school roof.
Of course, between 1958-1973 there was an absence of asbestos, following Mothra’s defeat at the hands of Godzilla and the Japanese armed forces. But, after returning in 1974, Mothra’s movements were so vigorous, that it released an untold amount of asbestos into the atmosphere, most of it still there. Scientists are unsure how long the specific amount will last, but have a rough estimate that it is between forty years, or seven hundred thousand. To put that in perspective, that’s enough asbestos to fill  238 Pringles tubes.

HOST
It really is a shocking substance isn't it? It's capacity for danger is unmatched throughout history. Here's a box full of string and copper shavings, I filled it with asbestos two hours ago and as you can see...[pulls out a handgun] it's created some fully loaded handguns. The French fed it to horses to create trebuchets & The Americans would mix it with Dr Pepper to create Napalam during the Vietnam War. And over here, I put some asbestos in a melting pot, alongside some spices and a second hand copy of Ulysses by James Joyce. It's been boiling for a while, and eventually will form a list of instructions on how to stage a successful coup of a small African nation. It's believed this is how Hitler staged the Munich Putsch, although Historians are debating on which book he used.

Cut to P. Bookface.

P. BOOKFACE

Asbestos was first discovered in the Capital of Europe, in a country called Finland, at the time known as Startland. It was discovered by a miner called Gelg Niffbogger, who inadvertently hit the first ‘asbestos pocket’ after some overzealous pickaxe work in one of the country’s marmite mines.
It was quickly bought to the attention of the government, who began selling it as an after dinner delicacy under orders from the king, a mentally retarded 11 year old boy.
It cost nearly 50 generic gold coins per spoonful, and was merely a status symbol amongst the elite. Noted for its unusual flavour, it began making the rounds throughout Europe and the rest of the world, apart from Austria where they hate dessert.
Because of social and cultural trends at the time, dessert was often served inside ivory thimbles, and as a result, diners did not ingest a dangerous amount of asbestos. Deaths only began when bowls replaced thimbles, as they were now required by order of the king, retarded, to build a giant stool in the centre of the sea (Painting shown). The inclusion of bowls, now meant a dangerous amount of Asbestos ingested, and during a party at Otto Von Bismarck's estate, twenty eight Germans dropped down dead in unison. The cause unknown, Bismarck nonplussed, famously exclaimed "Oh for fuck's sake. They didn't even try the fucking Pâté."

HOST

Admiral Nelson took Asbestos at a dinner party and died 8 years later in a naval battle. Coincidence? Probably not.
A 12 year old in 1860s Manchester died after merely hearing the word ‘asbestos’. There’s no scientific truth for this, but we read it in a book, so it definitely happened.
The most high profile death caused by asbestos is undoubtedly that of ‘the gang’ out of Kool and the gang. In 1986 on a high profile tour of Japanese Orthodontist offices, their bus crashed into a giant cube of solid asbestos that had formed in the middle of the road, described as the size of ‘a really big fridge’. The gang were killed instantly, and Kool never recovered from this event, instead choosing to isolate himself from the media on IO, one of the moons of Jupiter.
Now, we're going to take a break from asbestos and go over to the wonderful human being who talks to you lot out there, resident knowledge trough, Suzanne. SUZIE. HELLO.

Cut to a young blonde woman on the other side of the studio.

Suzanne

Hello! It's me, Suzanne the human supercomputer! I've gotten loads of emails lately asking me questions, so I've been working as hard as a Victorian labourer, or as they called them, Children!

I've gotten an email from Andrea in Maryland, she asks "Suzanne, what does 'To Be or Not To Be?' mean? Thank you".
Well...Andrea, that's...that's an English question. So...I can't really answer that.

The next Email is from Lucy in York and Mindy, she asks "Suzanne, did Native Americans really use every part of the Buffalo?"
Good question! Now yes, actually they did! Some people might think, 'Hey, what exactly could you use a Buffalo knee joint for?' and you'd be surprised. [Various Pictures or props appear] Buffalo Eyes were used for marbles Ribcages were used to make exercise bikes, and even intestines were used for Christmas decorations by those not slaughtered for refusing to convert! How about you try it at home, murder a buffalo and see what you can make out of it, send us a list and you could be feature on our next episode, unless you've got a hideous face!

We've got an email here from Alexandra from Stokyo on Trent, she asks 'Suzanne, I really fancy the host, is he free for a pub lunch with me sometime?' Haha! Well are you?

Abrupt cut to the host.

HOST
(Furrows brow, look of contempt, mouthing)
Fuckin-

Back to Suzanne

SUZANNE

I'll take that as a yes Alexandra! Anyway, that's my email sack thoroughly...drained, thank you all for your questions! Those we didn't answer today, Propa soz innit!
Anyway, before I go, there's one final thing, the answer to the fiendish question I asked last show! I asked 'Which famous Britain was nicknamed, 'The Juggernaut'?'. The answer was in fact [Picture appears] Emmeline Pankhurst! So well done to 12 year old Lewis from London, you would win a prize but your address literally just said London...it wasn't specific enough! Host.

Back to the Host

HOST

Thank you Suzie. [To Audience]Here's some history thingamybobs.

An old short clip from an informative video plays. Roughly around 1950. Grainy and jilted black and white footage is the background for a nasally, upper class narration.

Narrator
Looked in the taps? Checked behind the boiler? How about behind the Garden shed? But what about the chimney? Ahh, there he is! Remember, always check your house for communists! This informational video bought to you by the Department of Socialist Shenanigan prevention.

Cut to a series of old photographs of mundane individuals doing nothing of note. Soft music plays, a gentle voice over.

Voice Over

People through time. Sepia Pictures over soft music. Boring photographs, but they're black and white. This one's zooming in a bit. Look. History. It's this.

BACK TO THE HOST

HOST

Now it's time for a historical re-enactment with Lesperance. LESPERANCE. ENTHRALL ME.

Cut to, a dishevelled, warped and wiry individual. Unusual hair, be it head wise or facially. A model is behind him.

LESPERANCE

Thank you Host. Today I will be re-enacting the sacking of Rome, using lego bricks and frozen spheres made from hair.

Lesperance proceeds to hurl his frozen projectiles at the laughable lego model behind him. He does this for a bewildering and awkward 10 seconds.

LESPERANCE

I AM A MONGOL. TAKE THAT ROME. I BURY YOUR DECADENT HEDONISM.

Thank you.

Back to Host.

HOST
Haha, delightful. He has many convictions.

CUT TO
Various pictures of Charles De Gaulle appear on the screen, a punk rock backing plays behind it, his name bellowed repeatedly for an eternity compressed into 20 surreal seconds. CHARLES DE GAULLE. CHARLES DE GAULLE! CHARLES DE GAULLE!!

HOST

Now back to our short feature about the history of asbestos, well not all of it, that'd take bloody ages! (Immediately serious)

P.BOOKFACE

Asbestos featured a decline towards the late 19th century once people became aware of the dangers it caused. We don't actually know how it kills, it just does. Ok? Deal with it. Governments made the substance illegal, punishments varying from a hefty fine, to being impaled on your own spine, Denmark's weird like that. Certain groups smuggled it, still catering to certain groups and masses. It wasn't addictive, people were just idiots, deeming it a social symbol or bohemian expression of creativity and anarchy.

(BLA BLA BLA, FINISH LATER)

HOST
Now, it's time for an interview with an individual who witnessed a pivotal act in history. We call this section, History pervert.

Today's History pervert is former labour MP Turwold Rossington. Turwold was 4 years old when his father, on a business trip to Munich, observed an event at a local tavern. The event? The Munich Putsch. And the perpetrator? Racist motorway supremacist, Adolf Hitler.

CUT TO an interview scenario in a small room, THE HOST is there with a man in his 90s. Sharp suit, calm demeanour and a refined class to his overall persona.

HOST

Turowld Rossington, thank you for joining us. Now, as a young boy you witnessed an integral part of the build-up to the second world war.

TURWOLD (HOST interrupts off screen in []'s)

Yes, as a young man [Boy] I went to Munich with my father where we stumbled upon a very hectic event I then observed [Witnessed]. At the time, and many years later, I had no concept of how significant [an integral part] that this event actually was.

HOST

Because you had actually entered the scene of the munich putsch. Hitler's first attempt to take power.

TURWOLD

The crowd was massive, and I remember he was so imposing, determined and passionate. I can still remember it to this day.

HOST

Because of the atmosphere? The historical magnitude?

TURWOLD

I remember it clearly because I was eating a particularly delectable tart at the time, tantamount to a thousand joys. It was...it was the perfect snack for a young boy at the time. My father bought it me from a vendor outside. A dirty man, considering how perfect his food was.

HOST

Lemon or Blackcurrant?

TURWOLD

(An agonising pause, then heavy and pained). Lemon. Blessed God...nothing but lemon.

HOST

Do you know what if Hitler was eating anything?

TURWOLD

Not that I know of.

HOST

Did he like tarts?

TURWOLD

I can only assume he did.

HOST

Riveting stuff. What else do you remember?

TURWOLD

There was a lot of yelling, frantic, chanting in unison. I recall thinking 'how did he get the lemon to set so perfectly in the middle of the pastry'. And then a single shot was fired.

HOST

Hitler, into the ceiling. (Winks at the camera) Did you know at the time how big of a shit Hitler was?

TURWOLD

No, but then he fired the shot and it scared me. And I dropped my tart.

HOST

My God...I'm so sorry.

TURWOLD

People ran and marched, about a hundred shoes...crushing it in the floor. Such beauty...it didn't deserve that fate.

HOST

What happened next?

TURWOLD

My Father dragged me outside, I begged, pleaded for him to get me another one but he didn't listen. I think that's why I grew up resenting him.

HOST

So for you, the Munich Putsch was really a cataclysmic moment in your life?

TURWOLD

I feel...and I say this with every cell in my body, that nobody has been wronged by Hitler as much as I had that day, or in any period of time. Be they a particular ethnic, religious or political based group.

HOST

Well that's, frankly that's astounding. Thank you Turwold for talking with us.

TURWOLD
You're welcome. (He bellows a guttural belch and raises his hands apropos of nothing)

Back to studio.

HOST

Sadly, Turwold Rossington died shortly before that interview was filmed.

BLA BLA BLA BLA MORE STUFF.

HOST
So that's asbestos for you, it shows no sign of stopping its incessant reign of terror. Sucks to be us innit? BYE.

Drive In. A Short Horror Story.

DRIVE IN

‘Everyday it's a-gettin' closer
Goin' faster than a roller coaster
Love like yours will surely come my way’

Cheryl had been the last to go.
Her skin bleached ashen white as her eyes filled with tar and rot.
She had crumpled to the floor and contorted like a dying spider, following the macabre routine set by Sam and Linda earlier.
Jerking upright, her head shaking violently like a broken film reel, she twisted her arms towards Bruce as her fingers curved into her palm.
The fireplace poker was closest to her, rudimentary but suitable enough to beat her with. He darted at it, his hand embracing the edge and ready to club her.
Bruce surprised himself when he found himself forgoing that crude style of assault and skewering her through the eye with a clumsy panache. He certainly hadn’t intended to do that, but desperate times and all that.
He wasn’t annoyed at himself though, regardless of the damp pop as the retina burst, the dull crunch as the skewer hit the roadblock that was her skull, or the inky spray of blood that warmed his face as her veins were severed.
He was impressed by his limbs working on their own accord, his conscious self being the lone patron to their ghastly theatre. It was far more ‘graceful’ than the methods he’d disposed of the others.
Cheryl reeled backward. Well, whatever Cheryl now was.
He knew Cheryl wasn’t Cheryl.
The superficial flesh exterior was hers, but it was merely a suit stolen by another.
When she screamed that guttural belch, octaves beneath Cheryl’s sugared tones, Bruce knew he was correct.
He wiggled the fireplace poker, Cheryl’s legs thrashing as he dug into her brain with the brass spike at the end.
It had gotten to her.
It had gotten to everybody else, why was she so exempt?
Because of her Bridgette Bardot eyes and ‘Peggy Sue’ chequered dress?
She was beautiful, kind and sweet, yes.
But those are adjectives for the living to judge her.
It was like trying to stop the night staking its claim on the sky.
She howled her discordant sonata and grabbed Bruce’s throat.
Her hands moved; a spasm from the poker? Maybe. Maybe she was easier to kill than the others.
The fire and brimstone grip that carved into his neck? No. That was intentional. That was Cheryl's grip, heightened by the malice that had weaved itself into her sinew and muscles.
He’d felt that grip on his arm at the Drive-In.
Roger Corman did that to her. The Blob did that to her. Man made nightmares did that to her.
Out of teenage joy and out of delightful shocks.
She wasn’t doing this.
She wasn’t strangling him.
It was this intruder.
This bastard.
This disease.
You won’t have her. I won’t give you the satisfaction you bastard.

Her hands remained around Bruce’s throat, his breathing painful and limited as it was when Sam had strangled him earlier.
Bruce grabbed Cheryl’s head, as he had with Sam and dug into her scalp. The fireplace poker was standing free on its own accord, jutting stiffly from the gore and swollen skin that formed Cheryl’s right eye.
When Bruce grabbed Sam’s head during the struggle, about an hour ago now, he hadn’t expected his hand to punch through the top of his skull so easily.
Like the cheap candy from the dime store, the soft mush that would stain your palms if you pressed too hard.
Bruce never expected Sam’s head to collapse at all, so for a few seconds he remained motionless and stared into the cosmic black spheres that Sam’s eyes had become. Cheryl’s had also been stained with this darkness.
He was squashing down on a horrific mix of brain matter, hair, and hair gel, whilst the jagged edges of Sam’s skull dug into his wrist.
Linda had seized this opportunity to beat Sam’s head in with the radio, barely giving Bruce enough time to pull his hand free.
Linda’s cardigan was polka dotted with bits of flesh and gore, Cheryl screamed in the corner of the Cabin and Bruce simply breathed heavily, his eyes fixed on the oak walls.
Now Linda was dead and Cheryl was gone.
Murdered, raped, possessed.
Contaminated.
In the space of an hour the cellar had been painted with dread and dyed with blood.
Maybe Bruce was being tormented, saved until last for a long forgotten sin from his childhood.
He’d never killed or harmed another creature, his worst offence was occasionally cursing at the assholes being far too uncouth at the Diner most nights, but that never escalated to anything.
He’d done nothing.
Nor had Linda, Sam or Cheryl.
Maybe if he killed them all then he’d be left alone, he’d prove himself far too strong to dominate.

Cheryl wailed at Bruce and he pulled back on her head, ripping her skull open.
His mind broke free of any concentration he had hoped to maintain, it panicked, trying to take shelter in earlier memories of the day.
It chose to take refuge in the Buddy Holly song that had been on the radio earlier.
The sun is out, the Sky is Blue.
The poker was heaved backward; the weight of Cheryl’s brain as it fell out the exposed puncture at the back of her head .Her neck snapped backward, a noise as sharp as the crash of a T-Bird as she released her knotted fingers from Bruce’s neck.
There’s not a cloud to spoil the view.
She birthed a guttural belch as she tilted backwards, her brain sliding down the fireplace poker towards the ground, as her arms clawed the air.
But it’s raining.
The decayed fleshy mass slid off the poker and melted to the floor. Bruce grabbed her neck with both hands and threw her towards the wooden wall. He began slamming what remained of her head against it, Cheryl’s fingers desperately trying to find anything to pierce or gouge.
It’s raining in my heart
Cheryl crumpled to the ground as before, her head destroyed, nothing but a paste washed with bone and muscle. Bruce reeled backwards, his breathing a jackhammer.
He stumbled towards the front door and made his way to the Ford Thunderbird parked by the lake, a few metres from the cabin. It was Sam’s, he wouldn’t mind. He stumbled across the grass like a drunkard or a cripple, spraying red over the sweet green around him as he headed to the car.
Bruce opened the door and sat in the passenger seat, staining the seats with gore and stench.
He’d just sit and wait.
Wait to see what happened next.
His fingers shaking, he turned the chrome radio knob and tried to catch his breath. Static and the popping burst of frequency intruded on the silence. His fingers, greasy and tense, slipped across the dial before stopping as he heard the faint dream of music. He turned the volume up and closed his eyes.

‘..weather man says clear today 
he doesn’t know you’ve gone away 
and it’s raining - raining in my heart’

Jumping Jubei Flash. 1860s Samurai as a 1980s radio DJ.

Many greetings to you and your Clan! It is I, Jumping Jubei Flash! And you are listening to the most beautiful and victorious of the modern pop playing stations!
Other stations dishonorable and unedifying! They weak, bend the knee and cower instead of playing nothing but the greatest selection of pop classics and modern hits!

Humorous painting of listeners reactions! 

No prolonged foolishness, let us begin with ode to a lying whore, Billie Jean by Michael Jackson!


This Billie Jean, accuses honorouble Jackson-San (Chamone) of being the father of her weak, maggot son! Disgraceful She-Fox will burn for eternity in the cage of lies she has built for herself!
Jackson-San clearly allowed a mistress as is rite for Samurai (his Brothers had many), but Billie Jean-Kun was not approved by higher ranked officials, therefore Jackson-San would never violate Samurai oath!
Pleasant track, bassline rolls like waves on the sand. Funk is very high, like literacy rate in Kanji!

Listener Susan Dewitt from Kentucky says 'Jubei, can you please play some Tears for Fears?
I certainly can, here is Everybody Wants to Rule The World!


This song has a pleasant jingle, like temple bells in the cool breeze. It is catchy and melody is high spirited, I shall encourage to the young recruits to chant this during drinking sessions.
No talk, moving straight into How Will I know by Whitney Houston! Dig it honourable listeners!



This song reached number one, you are a wise and strong music buying public. Lack of question mark in title irks my intelligent sensibility, but track is strong and energetic. I will tell you Whitney, you will know if he loves you when he brings you finest robes as part of a battle truce. He loves you when he asks you to cook for him, as he wishes to experience your culinary expertise which you must surely have, if not why are we even having this conversation?
He loves you when he is given you as wife to negotiate trade and travel routes with Shinto province.


The other day I was talking to town fool Tsurumaru. He say, "Jubei, I may be town fool. But even I know your station plays nothing but the best music mix!" We laugh. Tsurumaru is correct. I then cut off his thumb for addressing a higher rank without prior permission.

More tracks later! Now, local emporiums wish to deliver their latest wares for your custom!