Horne. Corden. Corne. Horden. Whatever.

My feelings on 'Gavin & Stacey' have been documented here

But, as per usual, Arthur Smith goes and does it all with far more style here

Git.

Thank You Karyn!!!

I've calmed down after the Captain Birdseye rant. And why? Because someone's signed my petition!!! This can do nothing but snowball out of all control now!

For those who are far too busy to click on the link - and for you new readers (thank you one and all! Feel free to say hi!) - here's my attempt at changing the course of human history:

We, the undersigned, request that God / Allah / Yawhew / Vishnu / Waheguru / Tina Fey / Gaia / The Force / William Shatner / Whoever's in charge around here, increase the day length to 25 hours. Go on. Please. Just slow the Earth's rotation down a little bit. We'll be your best mate. 

We've all got a lot on our plates at the moment and we just need that extra hour to get a few more things done. Or watch those episodes of '24' that we've recorded. Which would have to be renamed '25', obviously. 

Mind you - thinking about it - we'll need the diameter of the Earth's orbit increased as well, or all the seasons will get out of whack. We're not very good with the maths, though, so you'll need to do that as well, if you don't mind. 

Actually. as we'll be further away from the Sun, it'll be colder, so that's climate change sorted as well. This is panning out quite well, isn't it? 

We collectively believe that everybody on the planet would be onto a winner this proposition.

Except maybe Jack Bauer. He'd be shagged out. 

Captain Birdseye Can Kiss My Arse

Christ on a bike. I don't know why this product annoys me so much. 

Maybe it's the mediocre, Middle England, middle class aspirations packaged up for consumers in bite sized portions in time for the recession. 

Maybe it's the advert on a weirdness level so high only really weird dogs and cats can make sense of it. It features a sexy fish finger, for pity's sake. 

Or maybe - just maybe - I'm spending too much time sat in the car on the M25 with impotent rage balling up in the pit of my stomach.

I mean, let's aim high here! How about swan kievs? 

My Blank Pages

Well, the car finally blew up. 

Cock. 

But, in an attempt to put a silver-lining on this particularly gloomy cloud, at least I've had the day at home to do some writing. Which I have singularly failed to do. 

Double Cock.

And then had some bad news from work. Which I probably can't talk about.

Cock The Thrice.

I've been thinking about this blog and the fact that it's branched off from talking about screenwriting and into the realm of "arsing about". Hope you don't mind being my guinea pigs. I'm quite enjoying the release and the chance to experiment. 

But, yes. Writing. Had more feedback from the producers. "Stuck Between Stations" is now morphing into a 60 minute comedy-drama from it's original sitcom origins. We're going for a sort of 'The Wire, but - y'know - with knob gags'. So, lots of intricate plotting ahead. But all I have right now are a collection of characters and 60 blank pages. 

Oh, dear. I'm watching one of the episodes of 'Futurama' that makes me cry. Excuse me. Make that 60 slightly damp pages. 

Fight The Power!

This one can keep his bonus.

Text Book.

All My Idealism Has Vanished With My Hairline...

"Your right leg, I like. I've got nothing against your right leg. The trouble is, neither have you."

Hello. How are you? It's been a couple of days since my last post. Sorry about that. Have you missed me? I've missed you. Pining like a little lost puppy. "Have they called? Have they written?" I'd ask the Better Half. It's ok. We're all back together. We can cyber-spoon later, or something. 

Sorry. Got caught up in that weird train of thought. Onto what I actually wanted to say. With the streets of London running red with poorly-applied hair dye at the G20 summit yesterday, I was reminded of something that my old housemate, the Mighty Richard, used to say.

Political protest? A pointless exercise. Yes. Really.

Think about it. What's the first thing that happens? All the shops and offices board up their windows and doors. Using wood. From trees. That's the environmentalists time wasted by turning up, then.

And then the police kit themselves up with riot gear. And who manufacture shields, truncheons and helmets? Not magic pixies. Christ, look. The guy in the picture has a bloody gun! Not literally bloody, obviously. That would be bad. 

And if everything does kick off and the place gets trashed, then companies put in insurance claims. The insurance companies pay out and put up the premiums next year. Their profits increase and what drives the globalised economy and the stock markets? The life and insurance companies. Then everyone gets annoyed at the profiteering and we start all over again.

Richard's tongue was firmly in his cheek when he said it, but I like the logic at work... 

Reality Bites

Well, the petition didn't work. Maybe you just don't believe in William Shatner. Personally, I'm a Shatner-Agnostic. Still, no intervention from deities so I'm going to have to do this off my own back.

I've not written in anger in three weeks now. But, there's a deadline on the horizon. Baby C Due Date is less than two months away. 

And the BBC College of Comedy. I think I meet the criteria to qualify and, with the amount of appalling jokes on this blog, I should probably put my money where my mouth is. 

The only option to get all the things on my list done - and keep some kind of work/life balance. Don't want to neglect the Better Half or Kids A and B -  is to get that extra hour a day. In the morning. And that's going to mean getting up at five o'clock. 

But I made this choice to be a writer. Or struggle to be one. Can't moan about it. Just be warned that I might be grumpy over the next few weeks. 

I've made my bed and I've got to lie in it.... Mmmmm... Bed....