Scrapbook of a Wasted Life
(A Sort of Autobiography)
Mike Knowles
Copyright 2011 by Mike Knowles
Smashwords Edition
Disclaimer!
Although this book is intended to be an autobiography of sorts, please bear in mind that I’m using the term in its loosest sense. Indeed, it’s about as loose as you can get without being a downright lie. If you want an analogy, it’s about as loose as a size 50 pair of trousers on a man with a 10-inch waist.
Introduction
I got the idea for this book from Box 18: The Unpublished Spike Milligan. Edited by his agent, Norma Farnes, the book contains Spike’s ideas, part written sketches and doodles. Although not as famous or talented as Spike, I’ve also collected a number of projects I never got around to completing. Mainly because I was far too busy scriptwriting for comics and chasing trolls on the internet. In my heyday I must have been churning out more than a dozen scripts a week. No wonder I look old and haggard.
The Legh Road Bloods!
This photo above was taken back in the late ‘50’s after we’d formed ourselves into a notorious gang. It was supposed to be modelled on the American ones we’d heard about. However, considering the vast differences between New York and a small provincial town in Cheshire, this proved to be harder than we at first thought. But we were young and we were optimistic.
Our notoriety, however, proved to an entirely imaginary one. Even the cannon we constructed out of an old pipe, a banger and a marble was a one-off. (We pretended we were testing a new weapon). Although it blew a hole in an old rug hanging over a washing line, we decided it was too fiddly and dangerous for actual combat. We doubted if our opponents would wait long enough for us to load the thing. Not that we had any opponents. The fact that there were only three of us was also something of a handicap. Worse still, we were reluctant to get into any real trouble. A major problem for anyone setting out to be a juvenile delinquent. So we compromised by pretending to go on the rampage. There was a home for delinquent girls about a mile away and our favourite fantasy involved storming the place in the dead of night and setting them free. Luckily it never happened because they’d probably have eaten us alive! Still, it provided us with material for a bit of private masturbation. Real gang members would probably have wanked in public. And sprayed any passing females with globules of sticky semen shouting, “Take that, Bitch!” But we weren’t quite ready for that.
The photo is also interesting in that it recalls a bygone sartorial age. You’ll have noticed that the tall streak of piss in the middle is wearing his school uniform. In fact, he probably went to bed in it. (Although, I hasten to add, I never tested that theory). Whereas Tubby and I couldn’t wait to get out of ours. Needless to say, the uniform clashed with our gang culture. How the hell can you raise havoc in a school uniform?
ME: Okay, creep. You’re on our turf and we’re gonna carve our names on your backside with our flick knives!
MAN: Is that before or after you’ve done your homework?
See what I mean? I’m on the right wearing the nearest thing I could get to Marlon Brando’s leather jacket in The Wild Ones. I even tried to get my mother to dye it black. And, when she refused, I was momentarily tempted to use shoe polish on it. Now that would have been a bit of juvenile delinquency! I could just imagine the headline in the local paper: “GANG LEADER GOES BERSERK WITH A TIN OF CHERRY BLOSSOM! Things were definitely looking black for the Legh Road Bloods when...” And why the hell did I fasten it up, thus taking on the appearance of a bag of shit tied in the middle with string? The kid on the left was another disappointment. I definitely recall telling him that we were supposed to be a bunch of teenage thugs. And look at him. Okay, give him his due he’s part of the way there. The Humphrey Bogart raincoat suggests Casablanca and the violin case is straight out of the Valentine Day Massacre! The problem is his little chubby face. He looks about as threatening as a garden gnome. But we tried to be hard. And I’ve just remembered what that little boy was doing there. Our violinist was no Menuhin and, when he got into his stride, it sounded like the wailing of a 100 tom cats being castrated without the benefit of an anaesthetic by an inebriated vet using a rusty tin opener. So we were about to torture the kid into handing over his pocket money!
A Dysfunctional Family
When my mother died I discovered a large number of photographs I’d never seen before. I was born in Berlin and my mother came over to England after the war. She’d always tried to pick the winning side, but she’d seriously misjudged Hitler and the Third Reich. All those promises he made. The promise of lebensraum, or living space, particularly annoyed her. Initially Hitler had given her all of Europe to roam around in. This was gradually reduced to a few square miles in the capital city. A city where some very angry Russians seemed intent on shooting everyone. Living room became dying room. So it was either the English or the Americans, (Stalin was too like the late Hitler). To my utter dismay she picked the English because I would have loved to become a cowboy.
In this wedding photo my mother is the bridesmaid on the far right. God only knows who those other people were, but it looks like Hitler was one of the guests! I just hope he didn’t bore them with one of his interminable speeches. Not only could that guy talk the back legs off the proverbial donkey, he could amputate the front ones as well!
The photo above always reminds me of the opening scene in Carol Reed’s classic movie, The Third Man. The one where Holly Martin attends the funeral of an old friend. The film where Orson Wells plays a black marketer bent on making everyone in Austria as fat as he was. Again, I have no idea who those people were or whose funeral they were attending. The only clue is the large cogwheel in the foreground. This indicates that the deceased may have either been a watchmaker or an engineer.
I love this one because it has all the hallmarks of one of those “Who Farted?” photos. And the culprit is clearly arrowed. That expression of mock innocence is a dead giveaway.
The photograph above shows the old German custom of feeding wedding guests with jellies. Let’s just hope they like the flavours. Actually, the plates were empty giving the photo an air of austerity. So I used Photoshop to put some food on their table. Did they thank me? Did they hell!
I can only imagine these people own a racehorse and are toasting a big win.
That’s me taken some time in the late 60’s. The bloody dog just wouldn’t stop barking so I strangled him. Only joking...or am I? You decide. (Remember that this is supposed to be a dysfunctional family).
This is the house where I grew up.* The prominent red ring shows where my bedroom was. I lived up in the gods. Indeed, from there I could imagine I was Zeus on Mount Olympus looking down at the proles below. Actually, this bedroom hides a guilty secret. My stepfather bought me an 18th Century ship’s telescope that belonged to Admiral Nelson. The guy who’d sold it to him had pointed out the letters “HN” scratched on the brass. He then explained that on long voyages sailors would while away their spare time carving things. An activity known as scrimshaw. And Nelson was no exception. Unfortunately, due to the loss of an arm, he was less artistic than his crew and could only manage to roughly scratch his initials on his telescope.
However, unlike Nelson, I wasn’t looking for ships. Come to think of it, neither was he. “What ships? I see no ships.” However, I doubt he was doing what I was doing. That’s because I was trying to look into bedroom windows and there aren’t many of those out at sea! Except on the ship, of course. But then you’d have to go out on a boat to peep into them. Which would be a bit obvious. The only problem was the telescope wasn’t very good. In fact, objects looked bigger when seen through the naked eye. When I complained to my stepfather he said it didn’t matter because it was the one Nelson used on his blind eye. My mother, on the other hand, told me it was probably because I was using it the wrong way round. Trust a woman to be more practical, eh?
*Google maps, eh? They certainly saved me the trouble of going down there to take a photo of the old place!
A photo of me taken during the early 60’s inside the house above. As you can see the hippy movement had yet to make an impression on me. In fact, I look more like a bank manager than a flower child. A rather stern looking bank manager. A bank manager who has just discovered that one of his cashiers has not only run off with his wife but has emptied the safe. The painting over the mantelpiece showed the Mayflower landing in America. My stepfather told us that it had been painted by one of the officers just a few hours after they’d arrived. My mother pointed out that it was in black and white. And very few, if any, oil painters used that combination. But my stepfather had an answer to that. The man who sold it to him explained that the salt in the sea air – along with exposure to sunlight – had washed the colours out.
My old school – or one very much like it. I burned the real one down. I didn’t mean to. Bored during a science lesson I decided to see what would happen if I stuck a cork in the Bunsen burner.
A Sad Selection of Half Baked Ideas
(That never took off)
An after reading them, some of you may decide that they didn’t take off because they were about as airworthy as a cannonball welded to the Forth Bridge. But I’m strong enough to accept criticism. Just as long as you keep it to yourselves, okay? And we’ll start with this one. Having grown up with the Goon Show, I decided to write a pastiche...
A Play for Radio
GRAMS: CHINESE MUSIC.
ANNOUNCER: (HEAVY CHINESE ACCENT) Good evening, honulable listnahs. Our malket lesearch show avelage Blitish ladio listnah to be of velly low intelligence. Consequently they listen to any old lubbish. So now the Fah-Teng Whoopee Cushion Company is ploud to plesent Tlumpel's Glate Tliumph...
FX: LOUD WHOOPEE CUSHION. A LONG WAILING GUSSET FLAPPER.
ANNOUNCER: This is stoly of folmel Public Schoolboy Detective; Fightah Ace; Long Distance Lolly Dliver; Wally of first Odah...Wing Commander Holatio Landolph Tlumpel. He has been all these things and much more. Today he live in quiet seclusion in plivate nusing home for letied well educated Teddy Boys...
FADE OUT
GRAMS: A STRING QUARTET PLAY A ROCK AND ROLL NUMBER AT A SLOW TEMPO.
NURSE: What's the matter, Wing Commander?
TRUMPER: I can't dance in these drainpipe trousers - they're far too heavy!
NURSE: You silly old Wing Commander! Why don't you wear those modern plastic ones?
TRUMPER: I say! Plastic drainpipes? What a wizard idea. I'll just take these off first.
FX: SOUND OF TWO LARGE METAL PIPES CLANKING AND ROLLING ON THE FLOOR.
TRUMPER: There...that's better.
NURSE: OOOOHHHHH! What hairy knees you have!
TRUMPER: Yes, I use only the best garden fertilizer. Percy Thrower was the same, you know. He swore by it. “Bloody hell!” he used to say, “This fertilizer’s good for hairy knees.”
NURSE: I can't resist them. Run away with me, Wing Commander.
TRUMPER: I'm too old to run.
NURSE: (HOPEFULLY) Crawl away with me? You look worried. Do I frighten you, Wing Commander?
TRUMPER: Frighten me? I don't know the meaning of the word.
NURSE: Here's a dictionary.
TRUMPER: Thanks.
FX: SOUND OF TURNING PAGES.
TRUMPER: Ah! Here it is...frighten. A traumatic event often causing profuse sweating, chattering gnashers and loose bowels...
FX: A LOUD WET FART.
TRUMPER: Gad!
NURSE: What's wrong, Wing Commander?
TRUMPER: Quickly Nurse! What do you do with loose bowels?
NURSE: Tighten them up with a spanner.
FX: MORE WET FARTS. SOUND OF A NUT BEING TIGHTENED. THE FARTS DIE AWAY.
TRUMPER: AHHHHH! Modern medicine is a wonderful thing. This is terrible, Nurse. I was decorated for bravery during the war...
FADE OUT
FX: SOUND OF HEAVY AIR RAID.
OFFICER: Flying Officer Trumper, you're being decorated! We're going to cover you in this nice blue wallpaper with the pink flowers. My wife picked it specially.
TRUMPER: Thank you, sir!
FADE OUT
TRUMPER: Oh, dear! Look out, Nurse! Those wartime memories are bringing on another of my funny turns…
NURSE: No! Not a funny turn…!
TRUMPER: (FADING AWAY) Too late…
FX: SOUND OF HYSTERICAL LAUGHTER ALONG WITH A HELICOPTER STARTING UP. THE BLADES INCREASE IN SPEED AND THEN SLOW DOWN.
TRUMPER: We apologise for this appalling humour, but the sponsor insists we keep it in. Thank you.
NURSE: You’re welcome. Are you all right, Wing Commander?
TRUMPER: By Jove, Nurse! I knew I shouldn’t have had those extra laxatives!
NURSE: Ahah! It’s all coming out now!
TRUMPER: You can say that again! OOOOHHHH! I feel dizzy. I'd better lie down and have a rest. And I'll tell you about the time I was at Wallygrange, a small public school not far from Accrington. Whilst I was there I had two chums - Biff Bullwater and Smelly Smith. Together we were the ace public schoolboy detectives of our era.
NURSE: Your ear?
TRUMPER: Era, you silly woman! Era. That's life for you - in one era and out the other. I can still recall clearly our most exciting case. It began one September night back in 1938. We were in my study in the Upper Remove, toasting Muffins by the fire...
FADE INTO SOUND OF SOMETHING FLESHY BEING ROASTED IN FRONT OF A COAL FIRE.
SMELLY: Golly, chaps! I don't think Muffins likes to be toasted!
TRUMPER: (OLD MAN) It was Roland Muffins, a toady little creep from the Lower Third.
BIFF: I say! Look at his legs - they're all black! When did you last wash yourself, Muffins?
TRUMPER: Answer him, you snivelling little toad!
SMELLY: That's not dirt, Biff! His bally legs are black because we've burnt them to a crisp!
MUFFINS: (IN PAIN) You beasts...you utter beasts! How can I play rugger now?
SMELLY: With great difficulty. But it's no good complaining to the Headmaster. After all...right now you haven't got a leg to stand on.
FX: LOUD BOYISH LAUGHTER AND SOUND OF MUFFINS SOBBING.
TRUMPER: Oh do stop snivelling and cut along to bed.
FX: SOUND OF SOBBING FADES AS MUFFINS EXITS.
BIFF: Tomorrow we'll toast Bangers instead.
TRUMPER: Johnny Bangers from the Upper First?
BIFF: No, porky bangers from the butcher.
FX: SOUND OF LOUD EXPLOSION.
SMELLY: What was that?
TRUMPER: An explosion from the Headmaster’s house! And from the sound of it I suspect it was that huge 500-millimetre artillery shell he brought back from the Great War. He’s always messing about with it.
BIFF: No, Old Bean, I fear I must disagree with you there. To the amateur that unexpected nocturnal fulmination may have sounded like a shell, but - to an expert like me who has been trained to identify the nature of explosive substances by distinguishing the subtle variations in a detonation - it sounded more like a gas main.
SMELLY: (CUTTING IN) Nonsense! If you’re an expert then I’m a bally monkey’s whatsit! That was the sound made by the bursting of a large weather balloon!
TRUMPER: Yes, you could be right, Smelly! Come to think of it they both have a similar tone. Although the former has a slightly sharper resonance, the sound may have been blunted by some atmospheric distortion.
BIFF: Like the dense fog?
TRUMPER: Precisely! On the other hand...
GRAMS: DRAMATIC MUSIC.
ANNOUNCER: What will our intlepid helos discovah when they entah headmastahs study? But filst a commelcial blake…
FEMALE: (DEEP SEDUCTIVE VOICE) As a well known professional fashion model whose face has appeared in several glossy up-market magazines, I just adore the sound of an athletic man breaking wind.
FX: FART - RICH AND DEEP, LIKE THE RECORDING OF A TROMBONE PLAYED AT HALF-SPEED.
FEMALE: (MOANING) OH…YESSSS!YESSSS!…YESSSSSSSS!
ANNOUNCER: Ah so! No need to blake wind foh weal and whisk obnoxious smell. The Fah-Teng Whoopee Cushion Special Spohts Model sound just like hunky beefcake man! Yes, Listenels. Fah-Teng Whoopee Cushion Company is owned by glate Fu Manchu...
GRAMS: SCREAMS OF TERROR.
ANNOUNCER: …who insist on quality of manuflacture. And when Fu Manchu insist, it is unwise to disobey. Please! Please! Thele is no need to fea the glate Fu Manchu. He attend angale management coulse and he now totally lefolmed chalactel. He no longel evil. Would evil pelson manufactule platical jokes? No! You want heal the best falts? Then please to buy Fun Machu’s whoopee cushions. Now back to stoly. Public Schoolboy Detective Holatio Tlumpel and his two chums, Smelly and Biff, while indulging in unspeakable acts typical of Blitish public schoolboys, suddenly heah sound of explosion flom Headmastah’s house. Take it away, Lolling Stones...
GRAMS: ROLLING STONES NUMBER PLAYED IN CHINESE STYLE.
FX: SOUND OF FEET ON GRAVEL PATH. THE HOOT OF AN OWL.
TRUMPER: There’s been some terrible accident! Let's hope we're not too late! We owe that man so much.
BIFF: Yes, I owe him 50 quid! I just hope something has blown the old blackguard to kingdom come!
FX: SOUND OF MORE LOUD EXPLOSIONS.
BIFF: I fear we’re too late, chaps!
TRUMPER: (OLD MAN) But when we arrived at the Headmaster's house we found the great man in his darkroom. He was a keen photographer who developed his own pictures.
TRUMPER: Gosh! You're all right, sir! But we heard...
HEADMASTER: (LAUGHS) Don’t worry, boys. You merely heard me blowing a few pictures up. It's been one of those days. Won't you join me in a glass of whisky? I have some twenty-year old malt. It'll relax you.
FX: SOUND OF LARGE DRINK BEING POURED…AN EXTRA LARGE ONE THAT SEEMS TO GO ON FOREVER!
SMELLY: Er...no thanks, sir.
HEADMASTER: You know, I've always thought the old school uniform was a little too formal and restrictive. Perhaps you'd care to remove them. Don't blush, boys! There is no shame in nakedness. Come...let the night air caress your lithe young limbs.
BIFF: (FADING AWAY) I wish we could, sir! But we've got oodles of prep to get through!
FX: SOUND OF RUNNING FEET
HEADMASTER: Oh dear, I suppose it’s back to the rent boy.
TRUMPER: (OLD MAN) I, for one, was grateful the Headmaster was unharmed. I was toying with the idea of taking a degree in medicine and found his anatomy lessons useful. Then, when we entered the schoolhouse, we found someone waiting for us outside the study...
GRAMS: SEXY MUSIC.
MRS FOSTER: (HUSKY VOICE) Hello, boys.
BIFF: Gosh! It's a Voluptuous Woman!
TRUMPER: (OLD MAN) Gad, she was beautiful! Her dress was that tight it could have been painted on her body...in fact it was painted on her body! We tried to see what was underneath, but she had an undercoat on.
GRAMS: JAPANESE TYPE DRUM ROLL WITH CYMBALS.
MRS FOSTER: Who was that poor creature with blackened legs who showed me to your study?
TRUMPER: That was Muffins - a fag.
MRS FOSTER: No thank you, I don’t smoke. My name is Mrs Foster. My husband is the well known thespian, Angus Foster. You may have heard of him.
TRUMPER: A thespian, eh? Golly! I thought that only applied to women?
MRS FOSTER: Foolish boy! You’re thinking of a lesbian.
TRUMPER: I am? Which one?
MRS FOSTER: Me, you immature little boy! Can’t you tell? Why else would I be walking around with a large carved dildo in my handbag?
SMELLY: Gosh! What’s a dildo?
MRS FOSTER: It can do all sorts of things. However, my sexual proclivities need not concern you. Anyway, you’re far too young and innocent to even consider such things…
TRUMPER: (QUICKLY) We’re fairly advanced for our age!
MRS FOSTER: (IGNORES HIM) I came here because I need your help.
GRAMS: DRAMATIC CHORDS.
SMELLY: In that case, we'll do what we can, won't we, chaps?
AD LIBS: GOSH, YES! ABSOLUTELY! ETC.
MRS FOSTER: Good. I hear you are Public Schoolboy Detectives. What I want to know is, are you any good?
BIFF: Good? We’re positively brilliant! In fact, we've solved a number of tricky cases.
SMELLY: Extremely tricky cases.
TRUMPER: Fiendishly tricky cases.
BIFF: Mind-bogglingly-tricky cases.
MRS FOSTER: Then you're my only hope. It's my partner - I fear she may have fallen into the hands of some white slavers!
GRAMS: SOME MORE DRAMATIC CHORDS.
SMELLY: (UNSURE) White slavers? Cripes! That sounds...er...jolly serious.
MRS FOSTER: I also have reason to suspect that she may have been kidnapped by a one armed deaf and dumb Albino dwarf with a club foot.
GRAMS: THOSE DRAMATIC CHORDS AGAIN.
TRUMPER: Good Lord! It can't be!
MRS FOSTER: You know him?
SMELLY: Gosh! I'll say we do! His name is Peppery Dan. He lost his left arm when old Trumper pushed him under a tram in Blackpool last year.
MRS FOSTER: It was his right arm that was missing.
SMELLY: (DISAPPOINTED) Wrong dwarf - pity.
AD LIBS: WHAT A SHAME! ETC.
MRS FOSTER: My partner was last seen in a night club in Paris called Le Rouge Derrier. Here's my card. It has my address and telephone number. Please call me the moment you hear anything.
TRUMPER: We have heard something.
MRS FOSTER: You have? That’s incredible. What is it?
TRUMPER: (PROUDLY) That your partner was last seen in a Parisian night club called…Le Rouge Derrier!
MRS FOSTER: I’ve just told you that. Just let me know if you come across any additional information. I want you to rescue her. But be warned. It may be dangerous...you may even be killed. Those white slavers are desperate men.
TRUMPER: (OLD MAN) At that point I don’t remember any more because I fainted…
FX: SOUND OF BODY HITTING FLOOR.
ANNOUNCER: Ah so! Will Tlumpel and flends glit teeth and accept most dangelous task to lescue Voluptuous Female pelson’s lesbian lovah? Ohah will juvenile cowahdlice gain upper hand and folce them to abolt mission? But filst a wold flom owl spnosol...
GRAMS: FU MANCHU MUSIC.
ANNOUNCER: Honulable listnahs want to play funny joke on flends? Then use Fah-Teng Whoopee Cushion for best lesults.
FX: SOUND OF WHOOPEE CUSHION. A CHEEKY RIPPER.
ANNOUNCER: Sound advice. The lecent Panolama Ploglam on the BBC accused Fah-Teng Whoopee Cushion factoly of using sweat shop methods. Panolama pose question, is plesevation of seaside joke shop wolth all this human misely? This not tlue. This big lie by BBC who pledudiced against managing dilector, Fu Manchu. Wolkels in owl flactoly do not sweat because we blow cold ail on them. Now back to stoly. Owl tlee schoolboy detectives have plosmised to lescue Voluptous Female pelson’s lesbian lovah kidnapped by gang of despelate white slayvahs. But news that mission could be fatal has caused Tlumpel to tempolalily lose consciousness in what Blitish call a Blue Funk. Stlange, in China Funk always blite gleen…
GRAMS: SLOW DRUM ROLL FOLLOWING BY CRASHING CYMBAL.
TRUMPER: (OLD MAN) When I came round I found myself lying in a pool of liquid. It had a familiar odour and the crotch of my trousers felt damp. There was no time to lose. We felt that if we helped rescue Mrs Foster’s sister, she might be grateful enough to forgo her lesbian tendencies and bestow certain…favours upon us. Or – if that proved impossible – she would allow us to observe her indulging in some hanky-panky with her female partner. So, after packing our bags, we caught the first express train to Dover…
FX: SOUND OF DIESEL TRAIN.
TRUMPER: (OLD MAN) No! No…No! I want a steam train.
SOUNDMAN: Sorry, guv!
FX: SOUND OF STEAM TRAIN PLAYED VERY SLOWLY.
TRUMPER: An express steam train.
FX: THE TRAIN SPEEDS UP.
TRUMPER: (OLD MAN) That’s better. Now get a grip on yourself, man! (PAUSE) No!…No! I didn’t mean get a grip on that! Let go of it, you disgusting creature!
SOUNDMAN: Sorry, guv.
TRUMPER: (OLD MAN) My God! Is everyone around here sex mad? What in blazes is the BBC coming to? I shall write a stiff letter to Lord Reith.
SOUNDMAN: Reith’s dead and gone, mate. And this ain’t the Bee-Bee-Bloody-See. We don’t have the taxpayer’s money to pee around with fancy sound effects. This is commercial radio. A bloody coconut, a Fah-Teng Whoopee Cushion and a dustbin lid…that’s all we use.
TRUMPER: (OLD MAN) And it shows. Where was I? Ah, yes…the train! Well, apart from Smelly defusing a couple of bombs in the guard’s van and my life-and-death struggled with a crazed Latvian assassin on the roof of the first-class dining carriage, the journey was uneventful. Here! You…the technician chappy over there in the corner. That’s right, you!
SOUNDMAN: Christ Almighty! What’s up with him now? Bleeding artistes. Always moaning about something. Listen, mate! If you’re so fond of bleedin’ fancy sound effects, why didn’t you send this crap to the BBC? They’ve got all the lolly.
TRUMPER: (OLD MAN) I did, but they turned it down. Now let’s see how good your Commercial Radio Sound Department really is! I’m going to stretch you to the limit. Ready?
SOUNDMAN: Ready, guv.
TRUMPER: (OLD MAN) Very well! Arriving in Dover, we caught the ferry and were soon heading across the Channel…
FX: SOUND OF SAILING SHIP. CREAKING RIGGING, ETC. CREW SINGS “YO-HO-HO AND A BOTTLE OF RUM!”
TRUMPER: (OLD MAN) The captain was an old sea dog…
FX: A DOG BARKING.
TRUMPER: (OLD MAN) The ship was called the Baskervilles. That evening, the Captain invited us to dine at his table…but we left when he started humping Smelly’s left leg!
FX: A DOG PANTING.
SMELLY: I say! Get off me, you beast!
FX: SOUND OF A KICK AND A DOG WHINING.
TRUMPER: (OLD MAN) Suddenly a storm brewed up. Fortunately it was merely a storm in a teacup…
FX: SOUND OF A CUP OF TEA BEING STIRRED.
TRUMPER: (OLD MAN) Then it got worse. The wind began to whistle through the rigging…
FX: THE WIND WHISTLES A MERRY TUNE THROUGH THE RIGGING. SOUND OF CREAKING TIMBERS.
TRUMPER: (OLD MAN) We retired to our cabin…
SMELLY: I say, chaps! It’s awfully stuffy in here! What’s this sign say? Chain Locker Store.
TRUMPER: It’s the only place we could afford. After the bally train fare we only had five shillings left!
BIFF: I know! Maybe we should open this circular window-thingy and let some fresh air in.
TRUMPER: (IN UNISON) NOOOOOOO!
SMELLY: (IN UNISON) NOOOOOOO!
FX: SOUND OF LOTS OF WATER RUSHING IN.
TRUMPER: (OLD MAN) Within moments the cabin was filled with seawater. Which wasn’t usual because we were at sea. Soon the ship began to list. First, it listed all the words beginning with the letter ‘A’…
SHIP: Aardvark, abaca, abacist, aback…
TRUMPER: (OLD MAN) The situation was desperate. In the best traditions of the British Merchant Service, the Skipper gave the order: “Abandon ship! Captain and crew first…the rest of you bilge rats are on your own!” After that the ship sank like a stone. By some miracle the three of us clambered on top of a large cabinet from the galley which we found floating on the surface. Then we had some more good fortune. I opened a drawer and found three large wooden spoons which we used to paddle ourselves towards land.
TRUMPER: I say, I’ve just thought of something. We could have taken the train to Croydon and flown across the bally Channel by plane. It would have saved us all this trouble.
FX: SOUND OF TRUMPER BEING BEATEN UP.
SMELLY: Wait a sec, chaps! What’s that out there? Golly! It looks just like a squid!
TRUMPER: Get hold of it, Smelly! We need all the cash we can get!
SMELLY: No, you dunce! Not a quid! A squid! A giant one! And it appears to be quite hungry!
GRAMS: DRAMATIC MUSIC
ANNOUNCER: Will Tlumpel and flends battle giant squid? What does hungly squid look like? Will owah tlee Famous Public Schoolboy Detectives finally leach Flance and lescue Voluptuous Female’s lesbian lovah? Find out aftel commelcial blake...
FX: LOUD FART FOLLOWED BY A SHOT.
FU MANCHU: (EVIL LAUGH) Enough of this bad English. People like that make you Roundeyes think all Chinese have trouble with their r’s. This racial stereotyping must stop. You want r’s trouble...?
FX: LOUD FART – A REAL GUSSET RIPPER HEARD IN AN ECHO CHAMBER AND EXTENDED.
FU MANCHU: Now that’s r’s trouble. The world has not seen the end of Fu Manchu. Those who have dared oppose me are mere pygmies...
SMITH: I’m six foot three!
FU MANCHU: That is until I cut you down to size, Nayland Smith. From now on I will be the announcer on this pathetic show...
FX: SOUND OF WOODEN LEGS BEING SAWN OFF.
When I got round to working out the rest of the story I decided to go the whole hog and turn it into a Goons script...
THE GOONS: THE CASE OF HITLER’S CROWN JEWEL!
Sponsored by Fu Manchu, now a reformed character having attended an anger management course, the story features the famous Goons. Namely Fred Seagoon along with Bluebottle and Eccles. It appears that they were schoolboy detectives who never achieved the publicity they so richly deserved. But all that is about to change. We begin in the dark days leading up to the Second World War at a small and almost totally obscure public school in the North. Here we find our three 6th Formers toasting Muffins by the fire. Namely Ronald Muffins of the Lower Third. A Voluptuous Woman arrives asking them to rescue her lesbian partner from the clutches of some white slavers and the three boys find themselves enmeshed in a complex and sinister web of deceit. Or something vaguely similar. And what of Fu Manchu, you may ask? Well, the man once described as the epitome of the Yellow Peril, (he was responsible for creating a virulent form of jaundice), is now back on his secret island producing cheap but cheerful novelty jokes.
Fu Manchu provides us with a touch of bathos mixed in with the comedy as we witness evidence of the sweat shop conditions suffered by the men and women slaving on his whoopee cushion production line. And, like Panorama, we’re forced to answer the question: is the preservation of the seaside joke shop really worth all this human misery? These are weighty matters, indeed. They are matters that have confounded famous philosophers like Russell and Kierkegaard. Both men could see the moral dilemma posed by this problem, but neither was willing to forgo the pleasure of walking along the seafront and nipping in for some false dog turds or itching powder. Anyway, back to the story...
After a number of mishaps including a legendary battle with a giant squid, our heroes finally reach France and make their way to Paris. There they meet the legendary Golden Hearted Tart - a generous streetwalker who provides her services for free. Services? Our heroes are puzzled. The GHT realizes she’s dealing with three virgins! “Sacre Bleu! Do I ‘ave to draw pictures?” It seems she does. The pictures are very explicit. “Gosh!” exclaims Bluebottle. “I never knew you could use it like that!” She takes the boys to her apartment. Seagoon tells them there’s no time for these shenanigans. They have a case to solve. The other two disagree. Seagoon will wait outside for them. Eccles says it may take some time. “We’re slow learners.” He’s right. When dawn breaks the two boys are still virgins. The GHT contemplates a career change. She warns them to stay away from Le Rouge Derrier. It could be a trap. Naturally, they ignore the warning. (If they hadn’t the story would have ended there. Perhaps it should have done. Only time will tell). As they enter the club there’s an altercation with a bent French flic, involving a set of false teeth and a bottle of Calvados. They’re told that Mrs Foster’s partner is in the basement. The basement turns out to be an opium den. Our heroes are offered a pipe by a German doing a bad impression of a Chinese. Being naïve, they think it’s tobacco. Pretty soon, they’re on a psychedelic trip. Mrs Foster’s partner turns out to be a transvestite working for the Gestapo and our listeners are faced with A MAJOR PLOT CHANGE! (A common device used by desperate writers trying to rescue a badly constructed story.) Still under the influence of opium, our heroes are bundled into a waiting van.
Our heroes are taken to Berlin where they experience cold turkey in a Gestapo cell. What, no sage and onion stuffing? They meet an old foe – Ubersturmbahnfuhrer Klaus von Peppery Dan of the SS Security Service. Dan informs them he’s the only dwarf serving in the SS. The only other known German dwarf is called Goebbles and works for the Propaganda Ministry. Our heroes discover it was Dan’s right arm that had been torn off in Blackpool. A German scientist called Werner von Blue has also fitted him with a mechanical hearing and speaking device. Proving the Nazis weren’t all bad! But Dan isn’t after revenge. He tells them this was all a ruse to get them out of England. A Very Important Client wants to hire their services as boy detectives. They are to meet him this very night. Seagoon protests. They have professional standards to maintain. They’re working for Mrs Foster. Dan tells them they’re wasting their time with Mrs Foster. She has no intention of giving them a quick thrill. Anyway, their new client is willing to pay them more. It’s a deal, says Seagoon. They’re taken by plane and car to a house high up on a Bavarian mountain. The client turns out to be Hitler! He tells them it’s a very delicate and sensitive matter. Everyone knows that English Public Schoolboy Detectives are the best in the world. Hitler reveals the Greatest State Secret of all. Only he and three other people know about it. It concerns something he lost during the Great War. Seagoon cuts in: Is Hitler talking about his testicle? Gott im Himmel! How did they know? Seagoon sings a little ditty doing the rounds at school. Hitler’s Only Got One Ball!” Shock!…Horror! Is it true about Himmler? If so, how similar is his condition? And poor Goebbles! Yet he has all those children?
Hitler confesses that the situation is much worse than he imagined. It’s a PR nightmare! How can they call themselves the Master Race. Their people must never find out that three of the top Nazis have only two balls between them. They must find Hitler’s missing ball at all costs. Seagoon tells the Fuhrer that he’s talking bollocks. Hitler agrees. He explains how his testicle was lost. In flashback we’re taken back to the trenches. Hitler, the company runner, is delivering a vital message. The Germans are on the verge of a major military catastrophe. There’s no sauerkraut for the evening meal! Suddenly there’s an explosion. Hitler comes round in hospital…minus half of the family jewels. A soldier called Hans Grossenfurt was with him when it happened and the poor fellow ends up with severe shell shock.
Seagoon entertains Hitler and his comrades with some jokes. Hitler is impressed. Scheiss! If only we Germans had a sense of humour! Hitler offers Seagoon a job. The Nazis are holding a big rally in Nuremberg. Would Seagoon do the warm up spot? Get the Deutches Volk into a Party mood, so to speak. Seagoon rises to the occasion. He leads the crowd in some communal singing. “There’ll Always Be An England,” “Roll Out The Barrel…” Then he tells some one-liners. The crowd are hungry for more. For a moment it looks like the Germans might dump Hitler and follow Seagoon instead! Magnanimously, Seagoon hands the reins to a grateful and relieved Fuhrer. Our heroes return to France to visit the spot where it happened. Maybe the ball is lying there. They find some unexploded shells, a few grenades, some skeletons, a pair of size 18 army boots, three glass eyes, a tin of bully beef, the missing portions of the Dead Sea Scrolls…but no testicle!
Maybe Hans Grossenfurt can remember something? He’s tracked down to a sanatorium. He’s never recovered. The doctor tells them they must whisper. Hans can’t stand loud noises. He also suffers from the delusion that he’s a Gypsy Fortune Teller. After crossing his palm with silver…several times…Hans tells them that Hitler will invade Poland. England and France will declare war on Germany. Hitler will invade Russia. America will join forces with the British. Finally, in 1945, Hitler will shoot himself in a Berlin bunker. “You see?” says the doctor. “The poor fellow’s quite mad!” They ask Hans what happened to Hitler’s ball. He tells them the Englanders have it.
Peppery Dan has an idea. Maybe the Fuhrer’s ball was blown into the English trenches. Our heroes return to England. They break the bad news to the Voluptuous Woman. She turns out to be a transvestite as well! They discover that the Voluptuous Woman is really the Head of SIS. They call me “C.” Eccles says it stands for “Chief.” Seagoon disagrees. He plumps for “Commander.” Bluebottle claims it’s “Controller.” “C” tells them it stands for something quite different. Our heroes are told they must find Hitler’s ball and hand it over to the government. The fate of the Free World depends on it!
“C” takes them to meet one of MI6’s top experts – a professor of Ancient History. “He’s a bit eccentric – thinks he’s the reincarnation of the Viking God Thor. Better humour him.” The meeting proves stormy. The Professor tells them there’s an ancient Nordic legend that says if you have one of your opponent’s balls he can never defeat you. This could prove useful if England ever went to war with Germany. Seagoon laughs. War with Germany? You’re as mad as that lunatic Grossenfurt! Didn’t Chamberlain get that “piece of paper?” “C” thinks it’s best to play safe. Those Johnny Foreigners can’t be trusted. Seagoon has another objection. They’re working for Hitler. And they have a duty to their client. “C” tells them it’s their patriotic duty to help MI6. No go. The Association of Public Schoolboy Detectives would strike them off! He offers them twice what Hitler’s paying.
They tell “C” he’s got a deal. The boys visit the War Office. There they meet a colonel in the records department. He’s one of the lesser known War Poets. He recites some of his poems. They realize why he’s lesser known! The records reveal that a Scottish regiment were holding that part of the line. The colonel tells them to be careful. The regiment is none other than the infamous 43rd Gorbals Militia. “The Wee Hens!” Men who’d cut your throat as soon as look at you – and those are just the officers! They visit the regimental depot and are mistaken as new recruits. Our three heroes undergo a dreadful initiation ceremony reserved for Sassenachs! Seagoon declares that Bluebottle and Eccles look quite fetching in kilts. Their true identity is finally established. Just in time – they were about to do bayonet practice. Trouble is, they’d been volunteered to act as the targets! They track down the survivors from the trench.
The trail leads to one “Curly” McDuff. They learn that Curly has moved down to Manchester where he’s an organ grinder and part time caretaker at the Free Trade Hall. “It must be him!” cries Seagoon. He tells them to remember the words of the song: “Hitler, has only got one ball…the other is in the Free Trade Hall!” Curly refuses to talk to them. They’re no taking that Hun’s bollock – it’s legitimate war booty. And what a booty! He’s never seen a bollock like it! They decide to wait till he’s in a drunken stupor, then sneak into his room at the Free Trade Hall. But Peppery Dan has been following them. There’s a final showdown between our three heroes and some Particularly Nasty Nazi Thugs. Cut to 1940 – Churchill has paid a personal visit to the school to thank our three chums. The Nordic legend says you should have both balls – but as they’ve only got one, it might take a bit longer to beat Hitler. Do they fancy going back there to remove the other one…?
Please Note: In order to give them extra bulk, this story may be filled with an appropriate amount of padding. Under EUC guidelines, this padding will not be more than 12.7% of the total humorous content. The story does not contain any additives other than those allowed by literary license.
And that’s about as far as it got!
BILLY BANG RETURNS?
The Hot Headed Bloke Who Blows Up When he’s Angry.
When Billy first appeared he was just a kid. Now he’s 25 years old and married. His wife, Betty, suffers from Spontaneous Human combustion. Whereas Billy explodes with anger, his wife merely bursts into flames. It’s a sure fire recipe for disaster. We follow Billy’s exploits as he tries to cope with such things as getting a job and attending regular anger management sessions with his long-suffering therapist. It’s not easy. Billy is a binge drinker who often gets into fights – with the inevitable consequences. Now, when the Old Bill know Billy’s involved, they contact the Bomb Squad! We also follow Billy as he tries to survive through a selection of jobs. Call Centre operative, traffic warden, sales assistant, etc. Billy also has problems with his sex life. He suffers from premature ejaculation, a condition guaranteed to make a man angry. Finally, Betty becomes pregnant. Will she lose her temper whilst giving birth and roast the baby? Given the genetic makeup of both parents, will the baby be normal...
(I created Billy for the defunct Oink comic back in the 80’s. The above was a vain attempt to resurrect him. Alas, this time he didn’t reassemble himself after blowing up!)
IDEAS FOR OLD COMIC HEROES IN THE 21ST CENTURY!
A comic strip featuring all or one of the following characters...
BILLY BUNTER: The story features Billy Bunter and Squelch as they try to come to terms with the 21st Century. The Fat Owl’s problems start when Jamie Oliver visits Greyfriars. And it’s not long before Billy’s midnight feasts and visits to the tuck shop are in grave danger. In an effort to curb his appetite which is costing his parents a fortune, Bunter is forced to undergo various diets.
As for Squelch, his frequent resort to corporal punishment means that he soon comes to the attention of the Political Correct Brigade. Sacked from Greyfriars he sets himself up as a male dominatrix.
LAUREL & HARDY: In this story our two chums travel in time from the pages of Film Fun to find themselves hounded by the Gay Liberation Front who reckon it’s about time they came out of the closet!
POPEYE: The iconic seadog is representing America in the Olympic Games. After winning a Gold in the Pentathlon he runs into problems when he tests positive for traces of spinach. Meanwhile, back in America, Bluto has been forced to attend an anger management course – with disastrous results! On his return, Olive Oil tells Popeye she’s decided to become a fashion model. But when they spot her anorexic figure, she’s banned from the catwalk. Popeye suggests she put on some weight and tells her to see Wimpy. A few of his burgers will soon increase her BMI. But Wimpy is embroiled in a multi billion lawsuit with the fast food industry. He claims he invented the burger and now he wants a percentage of each one sold. To add to his problems, he’s being hounded by some vegetarian activists.
DICK TRACY: It isn’t long before the famous Detective finds himself on charges of excessive force. And it’ll take more than his wrist radio to get him out of this mess!
FELIX THE CAT: Cruelly transported into the year 2006, Felix discovers he’s not as streetwise as he thought!
LITTLE NEMO IN SLUMBERLAND: Catapulted into the 21st Century, poor Nemo finds himself accused of being a substance abuser!
OLD MOTHER RILEY: These two characters featured in Film Fun. Old Mother Riley was actually a guy called Arthur Lucan in drag. From what I’ve heard he wasn’t a very pleasant character. In this story Kitty, his “daughter” goes on the X-Factor and gets her chance of stardom. Lucan claims he never needed her and sets out as a stand-up comic in drag. And it’s not long before he comes up against the formidable Lilly Savage...
Recycling Old Images into Cartoons!
The book will demonstrate how old photographs and other images can be turned into cartoons using the appropriate software. In this case, a combination of Photoshop and Illustrator. The book will explain how each image was created so that readers can try it for themselves. It will cover single cartoons and strip cartoons. It will also demonstrate some computer created practical jokes. Finally, it will show the reader two things: just how versatile computers can be and how they can be used to falsify or distort reality.
The above comic is the only one I actually created! Once again, other things took precedence and the project lay fallow on my hard drive.
OPERATION FA CUP!
Mike Knowles & Martin Baines
From the wartime archives of the Football Association, the full story can now be told…
1940 - The Battle of Britain is over. In Germany, the Fuhrer berates Hermann Goering for failing to defeat the RAF. Hitler cries: ‘Is there no one who can come up with a plan to defeat these damned Englanders?’ At that moment the door bursts open and Captain Erich Sohn enters. Erich, who bears an uncanny resemblance to a certain Swede, is the former manager of a provincial German football club. Erich tells Hitler he’s come up with this great idea. The plan is to select a squad of Germany’s best footballers, teach them to speak English, and then parachute them into enemy territory. To avoid suspicion, they’ll pass themselves off as a bunch of itinerant conscientious objectors who just happen to play soccer. Then they’ll take over a struggling 4th Division club and use it to win the coveted FA Cup! Afterwards they’ll return to Germany by U-Boat and announce to the world what they’ve done. Football is England’s national game and the damage to her prestige would be incalculable. Churchill and his cabinet would be forced to resign and the Englanders would sue for peace. What does the Fuhrer think? Hitler, a frustrated football hooligan, is delighted! He gives Erich the go ahead. That’s when the plan runs into difficulties. The German military are loath to let these footballers go. Hardly surprising, seeing these men are at the peak of their physical fitness. Much too valuable to waste on a harebrained scheme like this. So they substitute them for players who have been medically downgraded as unfit for combat. As a result, Erich ends up with a squad of players who suffer from a variety of psychological and physical disorders. His appeals to Hitler fall on deaf ears. The Fuhrer has turned his attention East and he’s much too busy to bother about trifles like these.
Erich moans about the fickleness of dictators. He’ll just have to make do with what he’s got. Which is not a lot. One of his strikers turns out to be the German version of Douglas Bader. A lieutenant in the infantry prone to daydreaming, this half-witted Hun walked into a minefield. Fortunately, Teutonic ingenuity came to the rescue! Unlike Bader, who had to make do with a couple of tin legs, the German’s are made of steel – and not just any steel, but the best Krupp steel! These limbs are at the cutting edge of prosthetic technology. Laufen durch technic. Another weak link is the goalie who suffers from shell shock. The slightest noise and he’s cowering in the corner of the net. Along with players suffering from diverse complaints like blindness, deafness, chronic diarrhea, along with a player whose nervous breakdown lead him to constantly expose himself, these are just some of the problems Erich must overcome. If that isn’t enough, there’s a cockup at the spy school. Their English teacher turns out to be a German who spent 40 years working as a pork butcher in London’s East End. The guy is also a devoted Arsenal fan. As a result, Erich and his men learn to speak English with a Cockney accent, (the rhyming slang really does their heads in!) Not a problem if they were being infiltrated into London. But their target is a small town called Oldbury, just outside Manchester! This is just another small hurdle to overcome.
The team arrive in England, but not without mishap. The plane drops them on top of a large sewage works. ‘Now we’re really in the shit!’ moans Erich. They finally find the town. A real Dark-Satanic-Mills type place. Ever since the Industrial Revolution, the local population have been ground down by hard graft and poverty, to the point where they no longer care about anything. Consequently, the arrival of a group of strangers speaking Cockney with guttural German accents and muttering Arsenal slogans, who purchase Oldbury FC with a gold ingot bearing an eagle and swastika, doesn’t even raise an eyebrow! In truth, the club was so useless that they’d have gladly sold it to anyone. Their first match is disaster and the Germans lose 50-0! But the local supporters are ecstatic! They congratulate a stunned Erich. Which is when he finds out the old team used to lose 100-0! The Oldbury Clarion has a banner headline OLDBURY FC DELIGHT FANS WITH A BRILLIANT PERFORMANCE! Erich and his team are hailed as saviors. With this boost to morale, the Huns overcome their difficulties and begin winning matches. (The German physio comes up with ways of coping with the team’s various disabilities, like a mobile bog for the guy with chronic diarrhea!) Erich, who has an eye for the ladies, gets involved with this lass from the local cotton mill – a Gracie Fields clone. The combination of her thick Lancashire brogue and Erich’s German accent makes communication difficult.
Fortunately for Oldbury, there’s not much in the way of opposition. England’s football clubs, also starved of talent, have had to make do with scraping the barrel. So, Germany make football history by winning the FA Cup! (Although, to be fair to the English, it goes to a shootout. And a memorable scene when one of the striker’s steel legs fly off and clobbers the goalie; thus rendering him unconscious. An English substitute is found who’s totally cackhanded! Thus the Germans win.) But, by this time, the players have renounced their nationality and become true Englishmen - all except for Erich,
The artist, Martin Baines, actually drew the first two pages for me.
HITLER’S PHOTO ALBUM
In October 1999, construction workers in the centre of Berlin were busily laying the foundations of a new government building when they inadvertently unearthed Hitler’s bunker. Exploring their find, one of the workmen, Otto Munchausen, spotted a decaying leather briefcase hidden amongst the rubble. Inside the briefcase he found a photo album wrapped up in oilskins. It turned out to belong to none other than the bunker’s star occupant, the late Adolf Hitler. The album contained an introduction written by Hitler’s secretary, Martin Bormann. It would seem that Bormann had been given the task of constructing the album which was intended to show the real Hitler, warts and all. Consequently, it was only to be unveiled several years after Hitler’s death. And what a find! The photographs in the album give us a pictorial insight into Hitler’s life from his boyhood in Linz to the collapse of the Nazi Party in 1945. Underneath each photograph, Hitler had made some notes describing where and when the photo was taken and who was in it. In order to verify that the album was genuine, Munchausen sent it to the celebrated British Historian David Irving who declared that it was undoubtedly, “the most significant discovery since the famous Hitler Diaries!”
Okay, there have been some dissenters. There are those who claim that the photographs have been doctored. For example, most historians agree that Hitler committed suicide in his bunker on April 30th, 1945. Yet, if we are to believe the last photograph in the album, Hitler was captured the day before by a 38-year-old Berlin housewife called Gerda Kartoffle. According to Bormann’s notes, the Fuhrer had sneaked out of the bunker in order to buy a loaf of bread. And, whilst waiting in a queue outside a baker’s shop close the Reich’s Chancellery, he was abducted by Mrs Kartoffle who handed him over to the Russians. (If one wonders why Hitler allowed himself to be captured by a woman, it seems he’d mistaken her rolling pin for a *panzerfaust). If this is true, then a lot of prominent historians are going to end up with egg on their faces. Finally, there’s a theory that the album was created by the British Political Warfare Executive, (a top secret unit responsible for black propaganda). The albums were then dropped on Germany and one of them must have found its way into the bunker. The researcher who came up with this theory claims that the album shows all the hallmarks of Arthur Mee and Phyllis Stein. Mee, a cartoonist and Stein, a graphic designer, both worked for PWE during the war.
This is one book I’m definitely going to write! I’ve got quite a few doctored images and a basic storyline. Let’s just hope I can find the time to get round to it. And I’m sure all those Neo-Nazis out there will see it’s just a bit of harmless fun. In fact I’ betting they’re mature enough to be able to have a good laugh at themselves and their hero.
IDEA FOR TOMMY’S TAPEWORM!
Tommy works as a chef in a MacDonald’s style restaurant. And, when he starts losing weight, his co-workers begin to worry. It’s not that Tommy’s on a diet. His eating habits are as regular as ever: one giant sized burger with all the trimmings every hour. Yet he’s dropped from 22-stone to a mere 9 in the space of a few months! Something is clearly wrong. Finally, Tommy agrees to visit his GP. Whilst doing a rectal examination, the GP gets the shock of her life when the head of a tapeworm pops out of Tommy’s arse. Not only that, the tapeworm greets the doctor with the words, “Guess what, Doc?” Then, extending itself like a garden hose, it introduces itself to its host telling Tommy to meet his better self. It then promptly disappears up his arse again.
Distraught, Tommy dashes out into the waiting room. From his arse comes the sound of the tapeworm singing, “Oh, we ain’t got a barrel of money...” In the waiting room is a producer from the Big Brother. He follows Tommy home. Would Tommy like to be a houseguest? Ratings are slipping. The insatiable British Public is demanding even bigger freaks and a man with a singing arse is just what they need. Before Tommy can answer, the tapeworm pops out of the back of his trousers. “Forget this moron’s anal orifice, my friend!” it says. “I’m the one you’re looking for.”
It’s soon clear that the tapeworm is the total opposite of Tommy. Whereas Tommy is an illiterate slob who eats junk food, drinks beer, reads those men’s magazines and listens to heavy metal, the tapeworm is refined. A fan of Gordon Ramsey, (he ends up on Gordon’s “F” Word), he’s into fine cuisine, drinks the best wine and listens to classical music, (he becomes a regular and popular visitor to the Proms.) And, if Tommy’s not got enough problems, while his IQ struggles to maintain double figures, the tapeworm has an IQ of 155, (he later joins MENSA, much to the disgust of the more conservative members.)
More is to follow. We witness a brilliant audition on the X-Factor in which Simon Cowell says they should dismiss all the other contestants and just declare the tapeworm the winner there and then. This leads to Tommy’s other half, (by now he and the tapeworm almost weight the same), becoming a pop star and a brilliant standup comedian. Eventually hosting an intellectual chat show on BB2. As for Big Brother? The other contestants stand no chance. (There’s a woman who could only afford to have half a boob job and is hoping to make enough money to get the other breast done. Having one breast the size of the nose cone of an ICBM and the other the size of a fried egg has left her slightly unbalanced. Then there’s an Alzheimer’s, a catatonic schizophrenic, and an illegal immigrant who’s also a Talban.) Needless to say, the tapeworm wins resulting in lucrative deals with the Sun and the News of the World who, driven by jealousy because one of the contestants was planted there by the tabloid, employ their false sheik to try and sting him. The sting backfires causing the paper to pay out huge damages.
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