Britain’s Greatest Sock

A seventeen-part documentary travelogue, presented by Donal MacIntyre, who travels the length, breadth, depth, width, height, girth and volumetric displacement of Britain’s forgotten parishes in search of the quintessential foot engarbment.

Tonight’s episode, which features a deafening Welsh male voice choir throughout and is inexplicably under-exposed for the first thirteen minutes, sees Donal jaunt like a girl through the sleepy hamlet of Shitting Dogbury, where it is rumoured that the sacred sock of Saint Turbot miraculously flew after the ill-thought-out crusader defeat of 1957 in Dartmouth.

Producer: Jacques Schidtt
Written, directed and totally fucking ruined by: Donal MacIntyre
A Self-Regarding Production
in association with
Delusional Diversions, plc

Exploding Towelhead Musical Funspurt

Celebrities are invited to perform various tasks live in front of a studio audience, including selecting disco hits blindfolded from a box full of acid-soaked, radioactive scorpions.

The final selections are then played at a thousand decibels to a group of twelve non-caucasian immigrants, who have all been fitted with huge beltpacks of TNT, the detonators of which are triggered by syncopated jazz-funk grooves of particular frequencies.

The audience vote for a certain song to be played louder and louder until one of the "Johnny Foreigners" explodes, splattering the audience, host and assembled Z-listers with entrails and gore...

Bruce Forsyth hosts from his jewel-encrusted commode atop a six-hundred-foot pole hovering over central London.

Warning: Contains extreme jingoism, bigotry, slack-jawed proles
and foreigner-baiting as well as extended close-ups
of gore-spattered exposure whores.

Nubbin

A walk to the off-licence (liquor store, for our colonial cousins) turns into a revealing, touching drama about the love of a man for his own shoes. On the way, he discovers the truth about his father, brother and step-sister, which gives him a deeper understanding of why his mother abandoned him at the age of twenty-five.

Ostentatious Rich Detective Flauntfest

In a world where solving crimes is only possible with the aid of Rolex watches, sports cars, hypertrophied muscles, expensive wines and great tailoring, Sir Peter Lunkhead (English, aristocrat) and Rusty Thrust (Yank, playboy) along with their hilariously comedic sidekick, Professor Intelligentsia, take time off from deflowering society airheads to casually solve fiendishly complex crimes in a matter of just under an hour, thereby infuriating the local police who have spent years interviewing suspects and painstakingly piecing their way through forensic evidence.

Our two heroes blithely snort, hump, patronise and grin their oleaginous way around the planet in a succession of eye-wateringly expensive modes of transport, including a diamond-encrusted Segway, which is then casually thrown into the ocean while our two main protagonists bust a gut laughing at the waste.

Luckily, a local farmer has a spare, gigantic wicker cock and balls into which Sir Peter, Rusty and the Professor are enticed, to be later immolated in a pagan village festival while uncharacteristically beautiful female farm-hands cavort around, rubbing themselves in all sorts of blatantly pornographic ways, just to give the credits something to roll over...

Really Hardwood

Intrigue, adventure, conspiracies, the supernatural, recipes and knitting...

Who cares what happens?

Because Hardwood is written by a raving heterosexual scriptwriter who has the male characters, led by Major Dick Everywoman, repeatedly banging on about they want hard, frenzied, sweaty sex with the women they encounter, while the female characters keep talking about how much they are literally gagging for hot cock action.

While this goes on and on and on and on and on they ignore the spaceships, alien invasions, and other strange shit happening in Budleigh Salterton.

Which doesn’t matter because it was all done so much better on other, earlier shows by much more talented people.

Misunderstood Zombie Underachievers

Given the constantly cloying hand-holding of the nanny state, zombies are reclassified from fearsome flesh-craving denizens of the undead to disadvantaged retards who fail to get the same breaks as the rest of society. After all, they are slow and their social skills leave a lot to be desired.

Special schools are set up to help integrate them back into civilisation. Hilarity and tragedy obviously ensues in fair and balanced measures.

It ends up with Tony Blair (and the gurning Cherie), John Prescott, Jack Straw, George Bush, warmonger Donald Rumsfeld, and that fascist goat-girl Condoleeza Rice being dragged through a lake of boiling monkey vomit and then set upon by an angry mob wielding rusty can openers, cheese graters, squeezy bottles of salty piss, machetes, croquet mallets, buckets of Blue Stratos aftershave, and a wide-ranging, yet tastefully selected, array of blunt instruments.

While this final sequence isn’t actually part of the narrative of Misunderstood Zombie Underachievers - The Movie, and actually won’t be filmed, the time seems about right.

After that the mob swells in size and goes after Parisians. And the rest of France.

Animation Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip

A behind the scenes look at the workings on an animation studio. Even though hilarity actually ensues, to make it true to life, most of the people working at Animation Studio 60 are portrayed as prima donnas, rancid pencil monkeys and utter wankers who think they are incredibly important but ultimately contribute nothing to the commonweal.

After the first episode all the animators watching the show phone in and complain that the actors brought in to play in-betweeners aren’t using the right pencils or the right drawing technique.

Viewing figures of the second episode fall dramatically after all the animation staff who watched the first episode are rounded up and burnt whether they complained or not.

Worker drones, unite!

Hi all,

In a bid to try something a little different, yet still the same in a “can we do something even funnier than our excoriatingly witty normal blogs”, how about interested parties spending a few moments coming up with the worst pitches/synopses/treatments/loglines you can dream up?

Points (and membership of this oh so terribly exclusive blog) will be awarded to:

1. Terribly thought-out basic premises
2. Offensive or bigoted lead characters
3. Narrowness of world-view
4. Having the smallest target audience possible
5. Appealing to almost no-one
6. Bad grammar, spelling or punctuation (or a complete lack thereof)
7. Clichéd storylines, characters or settings
8. Themes with a potential to start a war (or at least a good riot)
9. If a TV series, no potential for longevity
10. If a comedy, try to be as unfunny as possible
11. A thinly-veiled (if you can be bothered to veil it at all) attack on all those people who just can't see how fearsomely talented you truly are.
12. If it's a fictional account of a real-life story, use real names, publish phone numbers, addresses and photos where possible.
    

And stuff along those lines. Unlike boring normal writing, successful candidates should ideally be looking to scream out loud how little they care for research, depth, emotional content or the niggly stuff like libel laws, defamation or prohibitions of necrophilia.

Go on, this is your chance to flex muscles you've always wanted to...

Hello World!

He made me say that.