This is a little disturbing.
I just checked out my favourite satirical website, and right there on the writers' forum there's a proposal that the writers start a piggy back collaboration story.
Nobody seems sure yet which way they'd like it to go. I can sympathise with that. I mean, where do you start? You see, there aren't any guidelines and there's no established structure.
I want to take part. But where do you start when you have the whole history of the world and the entire back catalogue of literature to go at? Not to mention a million movies and TV shows.
That's a hard one, as the actress said to the Bishop.
So what I did, was I had a cup of coffee, and a cigarette. It's usually a beer but not first thing in the morning. That's why I stay up late.
So, I'm thinking, (shit happens) that if I had to start it off, where would I go with it?
Could go anywhere really. It could drive a man (or a woman) quite mad. Not that I'd have to be driven too far. I've done the mad thing, and hopefully I'm on the way back now.
Although I could never swear to it.
I am the man who lives across the road in Baker Street from Sherlock Holmes, the great detective. He gets all the plum jobs. The bastard. He's just had Sir Henry Baskerville knocking on his door with a Hell Fire Club/Hound problem. All right for some. I had a cockernee market trader knocking on mine asking me to help him out with a case of stolen tangerines. Hardly worth bothering my faithful friend and constant companion, Doctor John Twateyes with. Elementary my dear Twateyes...
Sod the coffee. I'm having a beer. Frees inhibitions I'm told. 'Can also land you in casualty' it says on the tin. I'll go with the inhibitions thing...
Some sort of ship. A spaceship, or perhaps a pirate ship, (nah, we did those already.)
But what if I was miniaturised? But I already pretended I was a spermatazoa in a story I wrote months ago. It wouldn't have been so bad but I was a sperm tadpole with a horrendously ugly woman at the end of it. I wanted to stay home in the sack to be honest.
Fuggit. Another beer...
Now I'm a cool black private investigator in Harlem, on 125th Street, waiting to meet a contact at a deli by the el tracks near Lexington Avenue. Big Johnson's stash has been hijacked and he ain't a happy dude. It's cold in Harlem in December, so I turn up the collar on my Italian cashmere overcoat as I walk into the deli and sit opposite Big Johnson. Can't help looking at that big diamond pinky ring...
Maybe not. Another beer seems like a good idea. It's all well and good these spoofers having fun, but I've got me a broken thumb and it hurts like hell. Worst of it is, maybe somebody will follow on from this.
Somebody mentioned Cleopatra. So I'm off in my time machine and I'm in Alexandria.
Fucking hell! She doesn't even remotely resemble Liz Taylor in that old movie. She's got a big nose and bandy legs. Probably rickets. Not dwelling too long here, I can tell you. I'd rather shag Boris Karloff to be honest. And I'm not remotely gay. Not that there's anything wrong with that. But she's a right dog, honestly. Mark Antony's fucking welcome to her.
You can't go wrong with dinosaurs. Big cuddly reptilian things with teeth like swords and talons like daggers. Maybe I could get involved with dinosaurs...
But then again; would you?
Nah, fuck that.
Come on the wife! I know you've got a sore knee but you should be quicker to the fridge than that! Shame on you!
Maybe something more sedate,,,
A beekeeper, perhaps named Erskin, who goes on a journey to the centre of the earth, but has problems, because he was breast fed up until the age of 22 and has a crush on the vicar's daughter. He craves the simple life, but he's forced to embrace technology, as well as the vicar's daughter's bloomers, and he learns how to do links, but he loves the smell of buttercups in springtime, and really likes the vicar, although he can't quite work out why.
Nah, that probably won't work either.
A Canadian gentleman, in search of his roots, who volunteers for a Bering Sea crabbing ship to raise the money to buy a genuine fish and chips - English Style with proper spuds and real cod - in Yellowknife. And his on board travails...
Really need more beer here...
A hunt for the chupacabra that mauled Susan Boyle...
That's got possibilities.
Oh, I don't know. I'm not all that creative.
I can never make my mind up.
Like that time I was teaching Cheryl Cole how to play snooker and she bent over the table. She asked me what I was waiting for and I told her it was a toss up between the pink and the brown.
Which is of course an old line and not totally true.
Cheryl Cole wasn't really there. That was a lie.
I didn't even have an erection.
More beer...hang on...
Sorted. Nice one.
Tell you what...
Why don't I sleep on this? Because I have no idea where I'm going with this. But what I do know, is that when I awake, I shall be another person, in a whole new world...
So I wake up as...