Tag Archives: Scripts

British Fare

Jamie Oliver, Gordon Ramsay, Nigella Lawson… pretty much the three most popular TV chefs around the world.

Do you see anything wrong with this picture?
No? Let me give you a big fat hint:

Um, yeh, they’re British.

When did British cooking become popular?
I thought British food and the people who cooked it were meant to be derided and jeered for all eternity. Instead Jamie Oliver goes home to his hot wife every night and sits in front of the TV and laughs at all of us, while we sit lapping up his 14 different programs every week.

Gordon Ramsay needs to take a look at himself too. I mean, for someone who takes the piss out of the French so much, he certainly serves a lot of French cuisine at that restaurant of his.

I was watching Masterchef today. If you’re unfamiliar with the format, its where they get three aspiring (British) chefs, and get them to create a three course dinner each, and at the end the two judges decide who has the most potential to become a chef, and pick a winner.

The strangest part of the whole process though, is the conversation the two judges have behind closed doors, before deciding on a winner. Today’s show went something like this…

Judge 1: Okay, tonight’s contestants were all very talented. The competition tonight is hotter than a typical beer from this country in which we are living.

Judge 2: Yes, yes, jolly good. Alright let’s talk about Benjamin.

Judge 1: Benjamin. The boy’s going to be a brilliant cook one day. I just really love his guts.

Judge 2: Yes his guts were quite tasty, just the right amount of gristle on that tripe really gave it an extra kick, frightfully delicious. He really put some heart into that stew aswell.

Judge 1: Ah yes, lamb heart I believe it was. Very nice indeed.

Judge 2: Caroline, I don’t think, has what it takes to be a professional chef.

Judge 1: I disagree, I think the meal she created tonight was pure slop.

Judge 2: Yes, but it wasn’t pure enough… I don’t think it could be put right up there with the slop that Benjamin created tonight.

Judge 1: Well she does assure me that her veal recipe is in the embryonic stages right now.

Judge 2: Yes, veal embryo is one of my favourite meals, and I think using the faetal calf in it’s second trimester was a good choice.

Judge 1: I think you’re right, and the less said about that dick she sneakily took from Richard, the better!

Judge 2: Caroline stealing that spotted dick recipe from Richard was indeed one of the shocks of the night, but I think Richard did well to compose himself, and the raw grit he showed was exempliary.

Judge 1: Yes a fine example of raw grit as a starter… I didn’t know eating mouthfuls of dirt could be such a rewarding experience… an inspired choice to be sure.

Judge 2: Agreed. Richard’s cooking brain is second to none.

Judge 1: Just so succulent.

And so on.

Advertisements

Leave a comment

Filed under Humour

Girl Troubles

I had an interesting breakthrough with my therapist, Gwen, the other day.
Luckily she’s secretly taping me and I managed to steal the tapes and create a transcript of the session specifically for this post. Oh, that Gwen!

From the office of Gwen Hollohan, 5/9/08, 2:02pm.

Gwen: So, James, I was thinking maybe we’d delve deeper into what we were talking about last session. I think if we focus properly, we can probably sort that bed-wetting problem out-

Me: *Sigh*

Gwen: You look like something’s troubling you.

Me: It’s just… girls.

Gwen: Girls? *Looks through notes, mutters something about me apparently not being gay afterall*

Me: Yeh. I have trouble getting them.

Gwen: Getting them? Like… understanding them?

Me: No, no. I have trouble catching them and making them love me.

Gwen: I see.

Me: See, I manage to meet girls easy enough. I can talk to them okay. I can lure them in, so to speak…

Gwen: Mhmm…

Me: But, it seems that no matter what I do, I can’t seem to trick them into dating me.

Gwen: James, tell me you theories about being in a relationship with a woman.

Me: Ahh, well… I haven’t really been in any relationships… thus far.

Gwen: Well, tell me what you think happens in a relationship.

Me: Let’s see… well I suppose it starts off when you meet a girl. And then you gotta like, trick the girl into liking you. Cos, like, ahh…

Gwen: There’s that word again. Trick. You seem to be on a common theme here…

James: Yeh, ah…

Gwen: Trick… lure… catch.

James: What’s your point?

Gwen: What do you do if you see a girl you like, at say… a nightclub?

James: Well, I like start chatting to her. I might ask her where she’s from. Then I might make a joke, just tease her a bit, like I’ll be all “You’re from Broadmeadows? Don’t stab me!”

Gwen: Okay… yeh, that could be seen as charming I suppose.

James: Um, then I might ask if she wants a drink. Then I grab her hand to take her to the bar.

Gwen: Good.

James: But this is where I get stuck.

Gwen: Why?

James: Well, my traps never work.

Gwen: These traps… are they metaphorical?

James: No they’re physical. I set up traps and they never freaking work!

Gwen: *Looks confused*

James: Okay, like, the other night I was at a club. And I did everything I just said. And like, I set up a makeship trap using an upturned crate, with a stick with a rope attatched to it holding it up. I used a vodka raspberry as bait.

Gwen: What happened?

James: She could tell straight away it was a trap!

Gwen: I see.

James: She just kind of asked me what it was and I pretended I didn’t know and just freaked out and ran out of the place.

Gwen: What other traps do you use?

James: Ah, well, there was this time at Safeway. I saw a cute girl so I organized a trap by taping an ‘X’ onto the floor and letting go of this giant net when she walked under it.
It landed on her and she kind of screamed so I had to run away before security got me.

Gwen: James, I-

James: Oh, then there was this time I dug a pit outside Monash Uni and like four different girls fell into it, but they all seemed angry so I ran away from that one too.

Gwen: You’re not-

James: If only there was some easy way I could use technology to be able to get chicks. Some sort of device that could give me the power to pick up all the girls I wanted…

Gwen: No, James, what you need is intense couns-

James: Wait! That’s it! I know exactly what I need! Gwen, you’re a genius! I think I’ve just had a massive breakthrough!!! (I skip out of the office merrily)

Gwen: (Gets on speaker phone) Sandra, cancel my one o’clock.

Anyway, the following picture is a result of my stroke of genius. I intend to take it to the patent office tommorow.

1 Comment

Filed under Humour

Bleak, Retarded Future: A Sci-Fi Synopsis.

Melbourne: The future.

A city in disarray. Violence rules the streets.

Successive governments have failed to curb the out of control binge-drinking epidemic that is gripping the city. People just drink future-beers where ever they want then start future-fights. It’s madness.

Even banning drinking in strip clubs failed to stop the bloodshed. Who could have predicted that? I seriously would have thought that’d have a massive impact and stop all the crime from happening.

Inside the Australian Centre for Knee-Jerk Reactions, after years of brainstorming and experiments, scientists believe they have finally found the answer:

Robotic Electronic Titanium Alcohol-Reducing Diamorphic Empathetic Defender.

Or R.E.T.A.R.D.E.D. for short.

A cybernetic half-human, half-robot crime fighter that will rid the streets of scum and villainy.

Scientist 1: Finally! RETARDED is up and running! Now the streets will be clean of violence and mayhem!

Scientist 2: Yes. My children will grow up in a world without anything ever happening at all. I will rest easy.

In Canberra, President Rudd, serving his 19th term in office, gets word that RETARDED is being deployed on the streets of Melbourne, and makes a statement at a press conference…

Rudd: Seeing as though global warming happened in spite of our best efforts, and billions of dollars were spent on nothing, I can honestly say that if this plan fails I’m giving up on this bullshit altogether.

(Rudd’s aide clears his throat and motions at Rudd pointedly)

Rudd: Oh, yes… working families.

(Rudd leaves the stage to a resounding standing ovation.)

Back in Melbourne, RETARDED enters his specially-made RETARDED transportation unit for the first time and proceeds to cruise around looking for drunks and out of control behavior.

He spots on King St a suspicious looking individual.

RETARDED exits his vehicle and approaches the man.

RETARDED: Good evening sir. What is your business outside this adult entertainment complex?

Drunk Man: Heeeyy… youse is that fucken drunk cop thingo ey?

RETARDED: I’m Robotic Electronic Titanium Alcohol-Reducing Diamorphic Empathetic Defender. I keep the streets clean of intoxicated individuals through any force neccesary.

(Drunk man begins taking photos of RETARDED with his future-phone.)

Drunk Man: Oi! Davo! Loogadd this! Fucken metal shiny cop cunt!

Davo: Ahhhh! that’s awesome! (Gets out his future-camera phone, that in the future is actually a camera with a phone in it)

RETARDED: Sir, blow into my Breathalizer finger please.

Drunk Man: Okay, but I don’t usually do thish on the firs’ date huh huh!

(Man blows into RETARDED’s finger. A BAC reading of .145 shows up on RETARDED’s visor. He grabs the drunks man’s arm and breaks it at the elbow in one fell swoop.)

Drunk Man: ARGHGHGHHHH!!!!!

RETARDED: Sir, you are drunk. I am taking you down to the police station for further questioning.

Davo: Holy shit mate! That cunt just broke your arm in half! Fucken sick! I’m taking pics man, this is goin’ on my Future-book!

A job well done by RETARDED. He has kept another drunken lout of the streets of Melbourne, and only at a small cost to it’s taxpayers of forty-thousand dollars, and the city’s reputation.

But the job’s not done yet.

On the way back to HQ, RETARDED stops at a 7-11 to get a packet of chips, because he still has human parts, and those parts happen to like chips.

He notices strange activity going on inside the store, so he enters it with caution.

There at the counter, an armed man is pointing a laser at the clerk.

Clerk: Oh! Praise Allah! It’s RETARDED!

Armed Man: Oh, shit.

RETARDED: What is the nature of your emergency?

Clerk: This man is about to leave with all my money! You must help me.

(Beat)

Clerk: Uh… will you apprehend this man, please?

RETARDED: …I can not perform this function.

Clerk and Armed Man together: …What???

RETARDED: I’m Robotic Electronic Titanium Alcohol-Reducing Diamorphic Empathetic Defender. I keep the streets clean of intoxicated individuals.

Clerk: You mean, you can’t just take him to your car with you?

RETARDED: I can not perform this function.

Armed Man: I’m… just going to leave with my money.

The armed man escapes RETARDED this time! But if RETARDED ever catches him so much as .001% over the limit, his ass is grass!

RETARDED: I will purchase some Kettle chips.

Clerk: Fuck, you’re retarded.

Leave a comment

Filed under Humour

The Olympic Dream: Andrew Gack

Well it’s been an eventful opening to the Olympics, especially with what has gone on with the swimmers just in the past 24 hours.
We join Bruce McAvaney and Duncan Armstrong at the aquatic center for the final of the mens 100.

*Aquatic Center*

Bruce McAvaney: Welcome back to the Beijing Olympic aquatic center. And it’s now finally time for the race that has been all over the news these past few days, the mens 100 metre freestyle final.

Duncan Armstrong: Yeh that’s right Bruce. As we all know by now, a most unfortunate event occurred yesterday, in which almost all of the swimmers from nearly all of the competing nations contracted selmonella from a bad batch of Gatorade. Mandarin flavour I believe.

Bruce: Yes, but one Cinderella story has emerged from the whole tragic event, and that is the remarkable call-up of Andrew Gack, the largely-unknown, fifteen-year-old swimming prodigy from Mildura, to the big race.

Duncan: It is a wonderful story Bruce. Yes, the Olympic committee ruled that due to the events of yesterday, each country with a sick competitor was able to replace them with a healthy member of their squad, and since Gack was the only member of the Aussie team not doubled-over puking into a toilet, he has been put on the starting block to represent his country.

Bruce: It must be a special moment for the young fella.

Duncan: My word, Bruce. Although there has been some talk of Andrew not being in the best physical shape for this event. In fact the selectors were deliberating whether or not to field an Aussie competitor at all.

Bruce: Well he does tip the scales at a hefty 104kg Duncan, but his mother re-assured the Olympic team that he was a “nice young man”, and that the Australian selectors simply did not see his “lovely personality”. And, well, it seems the selectors took a chance with the pugnacious schoolboy.

Duncan: That, coupled with the fact that he suffers debilitating asthma attacks and water sometimes gets up his nose if he goes too deep, were big concerns to the Aussie contingent.

Bruce: Well here come the swimmers now, heading towards their starting blocks. And here we see young Andrew Gack, the nuggety youngster waddling to his position.

Duncan: He certainly is a sight to see, Bruce. Noticibly, Andrew has chosen not to wear the Speedo Fastskin Pro Lazr swimsuit for this event.

Bruce: Yes, Andrew is somewhat of an old-school competitor, in that he feels more comfortable wearing his everyday swimwear while racing. Though I daresay he may be the first Olympic competitor to ever swim in a pair of black boardshorts and a beige “Hot Tuna” T-Shirt. He’s also playing it sun-smart, wearing a cap with a flap on the back of it, with what appears to be his school logo on the front. Good to see from the chubby Victorian.

Duncan: And you can see there Andrew has definately been training outdoors for this event, as he seems to have more freckles scattered over his pale, near-translucent skin than usual, although his mother tells us that one day they’ll all join up and he’ll have an awesome tan that all the cool kids will be jealous of.

Bruce: The swimmers head towards their blocks now. Andrew seems to be having some trouble getting onto his starting block, but a couple of Chinese volunteers get under the chunky youngster, and heave him upwards with their backs. It looks like a tremendous strain, but they finally get him up there.

Duncan: Yes, it’s definately a good effort there from the volunteers. Those ladies should be commended.

Bruce: The swimmers brace themselves for the race.

*Race begins*

Duncan: And they’re off! USA and South African competitors get off to a good start.

Bruce: We see there that Gack didn’t quite get the start he would have been after.

Duncan: No he’s quite a way behind already. He went with the somewhat unorthodox entry technique of the uncontrolled pin-drop.

Bruce: Yes, he jumped in feet first, holding his nose with his fingers, with only the slightest bit of forward momentum. Not nearly enough to make a real transition into his stroke.

Duncan: Speaking of his stroke, we’re used to seeing swimming competitors going with the “crawl” technique in freestyle events, but it seems Andrew is using a more obscure style here. What do you think of this choice, Bruce?

Bruce: I’m not sure if it’s going to pay off for the morbidly-obese wunderkind at all, Duncan. This doggy-paddle/breaststroke hybrid seems a very slow way of getting an edge on his fellow swimmers.

Duncan: That baggy T-Shirt is creating quite a bit of drag, too. There appears to be some air stuck underneath it, and it’s floating upwards into his face. This is a very strange medal attempt here from Gack.

Bruce: Yes, it seems that he doesn’t quite want to get his face wet. He’s struggling to keep his mouth above the surface in a vain attempt to not have to hold his breath for any part of the race. But surely he’s going to have to submerse his face at some point.

Duncan: He probably doesn’t want the blue zinc-cream on his cheeks to wash off either, Bruce.
Well, the other competitors have swum back past Andrew, who has only swum roughly three metres, and is now grabbing onto the lane rope, out of breath. Considering He hasn’t yet gone underwater, that’s a tremendous amount of moisture on his face, Bruce.

Bruce: China first, USA second, and The Netherlands come in third. China’s swimmer just missing out on an Olympic record, there.

Duncan: Great swim there from the Chinese competitor, a somewhat polar-opposite result to Australia’s Andrew Gack.  Who garners himself a disappointing DNF, as a team of volunteers attempt to pull him out of the pool using a series of large sticks and nets.

Bruce: One can’t help but wonder if the results might have be any different had the gelatinous meat-bag been in a Speedo Fastskin Pro Lazr.

Duncan: Questions will be asked, Bruce.

Kids the world over immitate the “Gack-look”.

1 Comment

Filed under Humour

Stuffypants Manor, Chapter 1: Henrietta

Okay, so the ABC recently showed a bunch of television adaptations of Jane Austen’s most popular novels.

Anyone who’s seen even a snippet of one of these programmes (or perhaps even read Jane Austen… blegh) will know there is a basic set formular to these stories. (Romantic entanglements, incestual crushes, comedies of error, etc.)

And I’m not saying I’m a literary genius or anything, but I tried my hand at one of these period-piece things in the loose form of a screenplay, and I have to say… it was a piece of piss.

Anyway, judge for yourself… there will be more installments to come, in the form of chapters. But for now, please enjoy the first installment of…

Stuffypants Manor

A tale of somewhat captivating romance, and stuff… I guess.

Chapter 1: Henrietta


We begin our story at the eponymous Stuffypants Manor. A large estate owned for generations by the Estrogen family. Well known members of English society for reasons lost to time, but they have a lot of money so no one seems to really care, as long as they throw wicked-cool parties every so often.

Sir George Estrogen, the tall, balding head of the Estrogen family, waits outside the servants quarters of the Stuffypants Manor, for any news.
Within the servants quarters, Sir George and Lady Estrogen‘s favourite servant, Miss Lovechild is giving birth. Doctor Pepper is presiding over the birth. Lady Estrogen and the other female servants are helping.

Doctor Pepper: (To Lady Estrogen) I’m afraid it doesn’t look good m’lady.

Lady Estrogen: What do you mean?

Doctor Pepper: Well, m’lady, Miss Lovechild is losing a lot of blood. She may not survive giving birth… but we may be able to save the child.

Lady Estrogen: Oh dear… how horrible. Now who will wash my petticoat before tonight’s ball?

Doctor Pepper: I don’t know if that’s imperative right now ma’am…

Lady Estrogen: Oh, you’re right I suppose… (To the rest of the servants) I say ladies, if Miss Lovechild dies, I should like one of you to take over her petticoat cleaning duties for today.

With one last great push, Miss Lovechild finally gives birth. Doctor Pepper gathers the crying child in his arms and shows her to Miss Lovechild.

Doctor Pepper: It’s a girl, dear. What shall you name her?

Miss Lovechild: I… shall call her… Lisa.

Miss Lovechild takes one final breath, and passes away.

Lady Estrogen: Poor thing… That name shall never do… I like Henrietta more, let’s call her Henrietta. It’s such a wonderfully fitting name for a recently-oprhaned bastard child!

Doctor Pepper: Good show, ma’am.

Sir George enters the room.

Sir George: Is it over? Can someone make me my sandwich now?

18 and a half years pass and it is now 1812. It’s a beautiful spring day, and Stuffypants Manor is as resplendant as ever. Lady Estrogen is relaxing in the garden with her sister Isabelle ‘Itchy’ Hymen and her pug dogs, Sir George is thrashing a gardener for stepping on his rose patch, and Henrietta Lovechild, now grown up into a beautful young lady, is in the sitting room with her best friend, the not nearly as beautiful, and quite chubby, Penny Arcade.

Penny Arcade: Oh Henrietta, Stuffypants Manor just looks so lovely today! You must feel so blessed that Sir George allowed you to be adopted into his wonderful, rich, somewhat turbulent and melodramatic family.

Henrietta: Yes Penny, I do. Although at times, I do so feel like just a servant’s daughter. Like when my dear step-sister Dianne throws her scolding hot soup in my face… or when my step-brother Peter pushed me down the stairs.

Penny Arcade: Or when we laugh behind your back about that mole on your neck.

Henrietta: You what?

Penny Arcade: Oh Henrietta, It’s such a gorgeous day today!

Henrietta: It certainly is, and even more gorgeous now, for I have just gotten news that Charles is back from sea, and coming to stay with us in a few days!

Penny Arcade: Charles Whitmans-Sampler? You’re totally dreamy step-cousin?

Henrietta: The very same!

Both girls giggle uncontrollably.

Penny Arcade: Why, you’ve had a mega-crush on him since you were small children…

Henrietta: I know!

Penny Arcade: …and he showed you his doodle behind the lemon tree.

Henrietta: God, I wish I didn’t tell you about that, Penny.

Later that evening, the family gathers for dinner. Present at the dining room table are Henrietta, Sir George and Lady Estrogen, their children Dianne and Peter Estrogen, Penny Arcade, Itchy, and her daughter Valerie Hymen.

Sir George: So, Itchy, I hear you are very swiftly climbing the social ladder in London?

Itchy: Why, yes George. It’s all very exciting. My dear husband The Admiral is quite the Man of the hour…

Sir George: Ah yes, how many Russian ships did his fleet sink again?

Itchy: Five whole man-of-wars! And for the loss of only twelve of our own I might say!

Everyone at the table mutters expressions of congratulations.

Henrietta: Oh, Aunty Itchy, do you think our dear cousin Charles Whitmans-Sampler will ever go through the ranks from midshipman to Admiral?

Lasy Estrogen: Oh dear Henrietta… dear, stupid Henrietta… Charles has a long way to go yet. He hasn’t even recieved his hazing initiation yet!

Everyone at the table finds this amusing except Henrietta, who feels embarassed.

Itchy: Oh yes, The Admiral still remembers his hazing well, he still cant look at a jib without his anus hurting!

Dianne: I personally can’t wait to see Charles… we used to get along so well when we were children.

Sir George: Ah yes, I seem to recall he showed you his doodle… behind the lemon tree wasn’t it?

Dianne: No. (Jealously looks at Henrietta) That was Henrietta.

Henrietta looks down at her feet.

Lady Estrogen: Peter dear, where were you all afternoon?

Peter: Uh, hunting with Toby Lefroy, mother.

Lady Estrogen: You certainly spend a lot of time with that Toby Lefroy, Peter. I swear, Itchy, those boys go out galavanting all day, and whenever Peter returns home his clothes are always in such disarray! Untucked and back-to-front!

Peter: Mother, please…

Lady Estrogen: And he’s always covered in sweat and is short of breath-

Peter: I, uh, I’m going to bed. Goodnight.

Everyone at the table looks awkwardly around.

Lady Estrogen: Ah, he’s such a gay boy… so happy and joyful!

Henrietta goes to bed later that night, though she can barely sleep, because she knows Charles will be visiting in a few days. She drifts off to sleep and dreams of the wonderful times she will have with her childhood crush, dancing and laughing and perhaps him showing her his doodle again, but little does she know that in the near future, Stuffypants Manor will experience some of the toughest hardships it has known.

3 Comments

Filed under Humour