God’s Naming Committee – part 1
Here's a sketch about how there's lots of names for things and sometimes those names sounds really great, and sometimes they sound - well a bit daft. We wondered if this inconsistent nomenclature was the product of this planet's greatest producer of Daft Decisions - a committee.
Ok we were pretty fucking bored when we wrote it. But hey! Boredom is the mother of invention. Innit?
Jesus wept, that's pretty sodding awful Dave.
A Day in the Charmed Life of Jeremy Kyle
Button it Yank, before I kick your face in on National Television!
Monday 25 January, 8.00 am: Kyle Mansions, Gaywood Village. A flunky hands me the phone: its a long-distance call from my US agent, Sally Atan. "We're gold Jeremy!" she drawls in her broad Californian accent. "We're solid gold baby! Just got off the phone from talking to Mort at Debmar-Mecury. We've bagged the deal to make your show in the states. You're gonna conquer another continent!" "Why don't you button it, Sally-boy?" I interrupt. This is my show we're talking about - The Jeremy Kyle Show!" "Yeah hun," she replies, falteringly, "we are talking about you. You best get your limey ass over here pronto darling!" "Don't you tell me what to do, chum," I explode, "on National Television!" "International, baby" she corrects me, mistakenly. "Shut up, you pathetic scrounging scum!" I conclude, with absolute authority. That fucking wanker agent of mine needs to learn some good English manners and ditch her dead-end job.
9.30 am "News 'n' Blues" Newsagents, Gaywood High Street. "How are you, Raj? Still struggling to get by?" I enquire, comfortingly, sitting with concerned familiarity on his counter. "Just the copy of Nuts?" Mr Paneer clarifies, holding up a DVD that seems to have fallen into my magazine by mistake. "I'm sorry sir, Midget Gangbang 7 doesn't come free with that publication. But if you want to purchase Greased Teen Pissers instead..." "Less of your lip, Newsy-mate!" I spit, instantly clambering over the counter and slamming his head repeatedly on the cash register to make my point clear. "Do you know who I am? I'm Jeremy Kyle, the frigging daytime menace! Why don't you stop doing drugs and find yourself a decent job? When I'm finished with you, my after-care team won't be able to identify you without your dental records. Just put it on my account, Sonny-jim!" And with that I storm out, pausing at the door to deliver my parting shot: "On National Television!"
Blake and Monty: burping cool new publicity ideas for Jeremy Kyle.
10.15 am: Flange Towers, where my publicists Blake Several and Monty Flip are holding an "Idea Burp" to generate cool new ideas to market my new show to the Yanks. "Word up, Jezza," Monty greets me, proffering a double demi-skinny vanilla lattecino. "What's happening in your crazy world of moral rectitude? Still fighting for truth, justice and the Kyle way?" "Am I mate?" say I. "Abso-posi-lutely. On National Television!" "Check", says co-founder Blake. "It must be hard being you, constantly twatting up really disadvantaged, uneducated chavs by airing their dirty laundry on National Television on a daily basis, and then forcing them to endure humiliating cod-psychotherapy!" "Spot on, Matey-jim", I concur, "it's bloody hard. Right Monty?" "Right" says Monty. "Right" says Blake. "Sure" says Monty. "Sure" says "Blake." "Laundry" says I. Stand up geezers, those two.
12.30 am: Chasers Wine Bar. "Nice to see you Jeremy!" the itinerant bar-keep greets me cheerfully. "Will it be your usual Salmon Teriyaki wrap and a half-pint of Tuborg?" The cheek of these service industry stalwarts working all hours to escape the poverty trap makes me want to gouge my own eyes out with a rusty spoon. I instantly jump over the counter, grab a bottle of WKD and smash it across his shit-eating mush. "Button it, you wine-stained arsehole!" I command. "This is the Jeremy Kyle show! You speak to the host when he speaks to you. Or when my after-care team tells you that I am ready to listen to your pathetic whining gripes. Now fuck off, Beery-chops, and get yourself a proper job!" How dare that wanker loser prick insult me? On National Television?
3.05 pm: Gaywood Village Green. Deep in thought, chewing over the various names for the new show that Monty and Blake cloud-burst for me: Jeremy Kyle / Kyle: Jeremy /The Jeremy Kyle Show: USA / Button it, Yank, Before I Kick Your Face in on National Television! Suddenly I see a callow youth mugging an old dear at knife point. I instinctively know how to handle the situation, because I'm confronted by this sort of pathetic crap, every day on my show. "Oi! What the hell do you think you are doing, Grandma-jim? This is The Jeremy Kyle Show: USA!" I bark at the old bird, and in a flash I'm perched on the park bench, consoling the confused juvenile. "Look, son, you don't need to take this crap from this scary-faced octogenarian. You've got a future ahead of you, Teeny-mate. I'm calling in my after-care team to help you through this situation." Then I turn to the malevolent old girl. "You're a shitting disgrace!" I scream in her face, in a whole new register specifically reserved for these arseholes. "I represent the silent moral majority in this village and you make me want to vomit my bloody guts out. Why don't you get off the smack and find yourself a job, for Christ's Sake? "I'm retired now, dear", the junkie harridan pleads. "I worked in the NHS for 45 years though." "I don't care if you worked in the freaking NHS!" I erupt. "Your type should know better than to terrorise some poor helpless kid. How could you do this?" I pause for emphasis. "On National Fucking Television??"
A Fresher Twatt in 2010: Silverspoon campaign launched
Silverspoon: not pro-carpet munching
As you are all perfectly well aware, this month saw the slightly cack-handed launch of the Cameron Campaign to clean up Broken Britain, and flog it off cheap at a Tory car boot sale. Our own man for the job of fixing Twatt's 'broken sink' - MEP Stewart Silverspoon - is also out on the campaign trail, patiently trying to explain to the villagers why their mining town would be so much nicer with a couple more hybrid-technology busses and a few less carpet-munching dole-scum. Let's all drink to that!
You know what they say, there aren't no friend loike that up Twatt...
The Path of Least Wesistance
What a gween woom!
As you'll no doubt be aware Jonathan Ross' time at the BBC is coming to an end. His reign there has not been without controversy, indeed one particular episode of his Friday night chat show was so controversial it never made it to air. Of course here at How Inappropriate we have our fingers firmly round the throbbing jugular of the media, and so are able to bring you the transcript of that episode, when the greatest rock band the world has ever known found themselves on Wossy's sofa.
Wossy - What a gween woom ladies and gentlemen, isn't it? I'd like to have sexual intercourse with each and evewy one of them, let me tell you. Shall I bwing out my first guest? Love them or loathe them, there’s no avoiding them, they are of course, The Path Of Least Wesistance.
<The band take 5 minutes to reach the stage, somehow. Kevin Piles, the drummer, approaches the 4 Puffs and a Piano as they launch into a truly awful rendition of Tina Turner's "Simply The Best" and slams down the lid of the piano on the pianist's fingers. Eventually they all take their seats on Wossy's sofa>
Wossy: Wow! What an entwance, gweat to have you on the show.
Geoff: Whatever
Tender Kibbles: Shhh
Wossy: Denver Bighorn, Jason Tiffing descwibed your band in The Sunday Times as “the most important thing to happen to the human wace since the invention of language.” I played tennis with him just the other day, he couldn't stop waving about you - is it nice to be spoken if on those terms?
Denver Bighorn: Not really. Language is over-rated.
Wossy: Cwikey! So your latest album "I'm So Fucking Sick Of This Shit" somehow twanscends verbal communication?
Denver Bighorn: We don’t just transcend verbal communication, we transcend everything. I’d have thought that was patently fucking obvious to anyone with an IQ in double figures. That’s probably the one thing that festering pustule Jason Cocking has ever got right since he first put crayon to wallpaper. He’s a fucking paedophile, you know. And you didn't write these questions did you?
Wossy: Tender Kibbles, you play guitar with the band-
Tender Kibbles: Fuck off, I’m trying to concentrate.
Wossy: I hate to intewwupt a genius at work but…
Tender Kibbles: Then fucking don’t, you cunt.
Wossy: I like to do a bit of complicated fingewing evewy now and then myself, if you know what I mean!
Cockfucker pickups come as standard.
Tender Kibbles: You fucking twat, I’ve completely lost my place now. If you must know, not that you’ll even understand what I’m talking about, I’m converting Rachmaninov’s 3rd concerto for bassoon and tuba from the patently banal, original E flat to my own key of F flat. It sounds loads better already. Rachmaninov didn’t know shit, fucking halfwit. Of course it’d be too simple with a normal guitar, even with every other string toned down a 15th of a semitone, which is the conventional way to achieve the revolutionary F flat scale, which is why I got this made. It’s a custom built Fendibsonrickenbackerdoubledecker with cockfucker pick-ups at both ends, and on the back, to pick up trouser resonance. It cost £750,000 to make, has to be stringed with piano strings, all tuned to F flat, which themselves cost £350 each, and, although it’s an electric guitar it can’t be plugged in. The reason it can’t be plugged in is far too complicated to explain to your special-needs audience, but suffice to say that if it was the electromagnetic field generated would be so strong that it would render the player impotent, and cause a rift in the fabric of space/time. It can only be played upside down too. That’s essential.
Wossy: Wight....so, Kevin Piles, you haven’t always been flavour of the month, indeed there was the comment from the Unquestionably Weverwend Earnest T Spatchcock, long time contwibutor to Empire FM’s “Rude Thought For The Day” that you were “worse than the holocaust”. How do you wespond to such cwiticism?
<Kevin Piles stands up pulls trousers and pants down to his ankles and defecates loudly and messily on the stage. Pulls trousers back up and returns to his seat>
Kevin Piles: You’ll notice, Jonathan, that I didn’t wipe my arse, that’s how I respond to criticism.
Pundits stating the bleeding obvious
Sports pundits - especially football pundits - are absolutely brilliant. Worth every of the many pennies they're paid to not play games or manage teams like proper employees of the industry, they lounge around nicely heated studio boxes with the best seats in the house and sport an exciting variety of black ties, as if they were in group mourning for the loss of a proper job. What's great about pundits though is their ability to state the bleeding obvious. It's as if every time they open their uneducated mouths they have just said something so profound about the nature of the beautiful game that time and space literally stands still and gawps at the enormity of their thinking. As this sketch shows.
WARNING: Appalling accents may interfere with your enjoyment of this product.
And the players are just starting to come out of the tunnel ...
Tarquin Vandertwatt mourns the loss of a legend at the Beeb
Tarquin - devastated.
Hi, Tarquin here again, and I'm sure that, like me, you were shocked and saddened to hear that after 13 years of service Jonathan Ross will be leaving the BBC. Here at FIDDLING, the BBC's most valuable multi-platform future audience delivery unit, we are in 24/7 talent-mourning lockdown as we privately mourn the Loss of Ross. It was with great difficulty that I was able to share this loss with my Personal Delivery Assistant, Lucy, and 20 of my closest FIDDLERS at Belushi's, Shepherds Bush, during a three hour 'Innovative Newness' session.
The genius of Ross was his ability to reach such a wide audience. With his high-profile, prime-time chat show - the only one of its kind on the BBC, his three-hour prime time radio show on the most listened to station in the country, and his half-hour long weekly film review programme, again the only one of its kind on the BBC he captured the hearts of millions. To be able to reach such a great number of people with only 4.5 exclusive hours of prime-time broadcasting a week on the most popular networks in the country just goes to show what a talent the BBC loses in "Wossy".
Genius.
I find it difficult to really put into words what it was about Ross that made him such a truly infectious personality, but I think the BBC's own Media Correspondent, Torin Douglas, best articulated it when he said, "A lot of people hate him ... but that's because he's an arse-licking imbecile with a nauseating taste in suits." [Surely: "... but lots of others love him"? - Ed.] Who could fail to be amused when, on Russell Brand's radio show, he left a message on Andrew Sach's answerphone to say that Brand quite fancied a Wardolf Salad? Or what about the time when presenting the Royal Variety Performance, he turned to address the Royal Box and enquired whether the Queen had been flicking her bean during Michael Buble's performance? Priceless!
On his prime-time chat show he was able, through careful research of his interviewees, to give his massive audience fascinating insights into the stars of the day, such as Dizzee Rascal ("Your first album won the Mercuwy Prize. Did it help your caweer?"), Ben Stiller (Your new film is Night At The Museum 2. Has it already opened in Amewica?"), or a reclusive Ricky Gervais (The Office set a new standard for office-based sit-coms. Will Extwas be as bwilliant?") Is £3m a year too much for an interviewer of that calibre? I think not.
Yes it is a great loss to the BBC, of that there is no doubt. One thing is certain: the Corporation must now channel all its energies into finding, nurturing and developing a similar talent so that they can then go on to take home the salary of over one hundred assistant producers whilst attracting audiences to programmes and schedule slots that have traditionally garnered high viewing figuers whatever their content. These are exciting and cool new times. The next overpaid, over-rated, tactless, giggling idiot is out there, just waiting to be discovered. And I hope I'm not accused of dancing on the grave of Jonathan "The Boss" Ross when I say: Welcome to the Beeb, Michael McIntyre.