Friday, 19 August 2016

Custard and Cream (Deceased)

“Dear Writer, I regret to inform you that…”
Unsolicited scripts and treatments that didn’t make the cut.


Dear BBC,

Please find enclosed a treatment and script for my thrilling new detective series ‘Custard and Cream (Deceased)’ which I think you’ll find both humorous, exciting and full of intrigue!

Two old ladies, former workers at a biscuit factory, team up to fight crime. It’s a detective series with a twist, though – one of them is nearly dead!

I am confident that with such a distinctive hook it could be a Saturday teatime sure fire ratings winner and easily filmed on a small to medium budget.

Since the BBC is hardly strapped for cash, I think my rate of £7500 per six draft scripts is pretty fair – but I am open to negotiations.

Happy reading!

Yours truly,
Andrew Hack, (writer).

The Pitch

Fingered by the police; unjustly convicted for attempting to poison biscuit mixture by urinating into it, Liverpool comrades Alma C’ustard and Betty Crème were released from Holloway Prison aged 75.

Determined to fight crime wherever they find it and bring wrongdoers to book, they pose as two dotty old market gardeners and befriend local likely lad and police informant Huggy Dog, a hip hop breakdancing graffiti artist from the rough side of Croxteth Heath.

And they have one unique advantage over the criminals – Betty has been told by Ted McNoflock, an itinerant Scottish vicar, that she could be nearly dead! She can now dress in a white smock, pretend to be a ghost, and frighten criminals into confession!

EPISODE1:  Fatal Traction


GRAMS: Hire John Barry immediately. He’s quality.

If Barry is unavailable, dead or you are too miserly to commission him, then something mysterious yet quirky, played on a Stylophone, to emphasise the strange nature of the detective duo.

You may use these lyrics and no extra cost:

‘Custard and Cream, oh Custard and Cream,
one’s alive and the other is nearly dead.
Together they are a top crime busting team,
because one of them hates eating bread.’

GRAPHICS: A mixture of live action and animations in blood red. It might be class to have one of them stretching out their palm at a car trying to run them down, then cut to the other at their graveside. Something like that?



It is raining dog’s abuse on a field which we see from above.

In the far corner, getting pelters, is a large, old fashioned traction engine. The hood and funnels are smoking and drops of rain sizzle and spit as they bombard the chassis.

Underneath the gigantic steel wheels is a crushed corpse. Its (male) face is twisted into a permanent mask of horror as though it witnessed the oncoming engine and was unable to escape being crushed.

The rain is turning the field into a soggy mess of vegetation. Only fools would be out on a day like this.

At the other end of the field we see two ladies: Alma C’ustard and Betty Crème. Betty is, as usual, dressed entirely in white.

As we zoom in, we see both have trowels and are digging in the shrubbery.

They seem not to have noticed the horrific scene in the other corner of the field.

Oh, good gracious me. What have you got, Betty?

I think it is a rare species of some nettles. Smell this.

That stings a bit. Get it away will you?

Sorry, Alma. Do you want some tea?

That’d be nice, Betty.


Oh yes, what have you got?

Custard creams. What else?

Both laugh uproariously as if sharing a private joke.

The laughter continues for several minutes.

Still shaking with laughter, Crème unscrews her thermos and pours C’ustard a beaker full who takes it.

They sit on the sodden fields, chewing thoughtfully, and now notice the traction engine smoking at the far end. A man is running away in the opposite direction.

The man is dressed in overalls decorated with arrows, wears a mask that obscures his features, has a ball and chain attached to his left ankle and is carrying a sack which has the word ‘swag’ written on it in large letters. This is the villain.

I say, Betty, a man! Enjoying a walk in the countryside I expect.


Could you pass me another biscuit?

Custard cream?

Both laugh uproariously as if sharing another private joke.

The laughter continues for several minutes.

C’ustard’s face becomes serious.

Do you ever get…

(Completing the statement, equally seriously)
…tired? Tired of this never ending life of crime busting whilst posing as dotty market gardeners? Tired of finding murder after murder in improbable locations and solving them within an hour? Tired of pretending to be nearly deceased?

No. Tired of custard creams. Ever fancy a garibaldi?

Course not. Then we’d be Gary and Baldy (Deceased), wouldn’t we?

            CUT TO:

Dear Mr Hack,

Thank you for your treatment and script, which we read with interest.

Unfortunately, we currently have no plans to commission a new detective series like the one you have sent us. We find the public have no taste for bizarre and incredible situations such as those contained in your script.

Writing for television is a difficult skill.

But don’t give up! If you have any further ideas to submit, please do send them to our drama department.

Yours sincerely,
The BBC.


Wednesday, 10 August 2016

Petra Shazagruntova: An Olympic Statement.

Petra Shazagruntova:
An Olympic Statement.

 Hello Great Britain! A thousand greetings from Rio! Thank you so much for coming.

That’s Rio ‘Burger Bar and Southern Kitchen’, Dudley, of course, as I and many of my teammates are currently barred from competing in the Olympics.

Please could I ask those of you eating fast food to move to the back? The smell of your Scampi Flavour Fries and your deep fried Jalapeno nibbles, they make me want to puke all over your tattooed breasts, arms, backs and especially your shaven, lice ridden heads.

Let’s have a great big United Kingdom round of applause for my sponsors, ‘Sports Direct’, who have provided me with their exclusive ‘Body Armour Small Cup’ sports bra today, available at a price busting £7.99.  Busting? That is just my little joke. They are protecting my own bustings, no? And at that price, they are also bostin, are they not, my West Midland friends?

I am honoured to be part of the opening ceremony of the Dudley and Stourbridge first Olympiad, taking place in the sumptuous setting of Glumeadows children’s play area and boating pond. I am told that the noxious smell is from the nearby glue factory and will clear in time for the first competitive event, the three legged egg and spoon time trial, an event that many of my fellow athletes from the Motherland will be competing once they have finished pissing into those little jars.

Before I open these games by lighting the grubby candle that Timmy has given me, I wish to make a statement.

I would like to announce my engagement to tennis champion and Olympic gold medallist Andy Murray. I would like to do this, but it turns out that the stupid fool has already married another woman, some nobody called Kim Singeminger or something. Well I certainly hope she doesn’t get bitten by a mosquito over there in Brazil and become covered in suppurating sores all over her belly, thighs and chest.

When I texted my proposal to him, he ignored it at first but, after pestering him several times, he replied that he did not want to become involved with a person from a country rife with corruption and state sponsored doping. What cheek. I, Shazagruntova, owner of the best lungs on the circuit, the most powerful grunt on the tour. Would I not be able to enhance his bedroom experience and bear him many children?

But no, he was not interested, too busy it seems poncing round with his country’s flag to spare the time to erect a pole of his own and stick it in me.

Well it is his loss. I have many suitors. Many of our own athletes are just as manly and with even more testosterone. I know this because our doctors give them the daily injections. They are always ready for the love making and can sustain their prowess fifty times longer than you, Mr Murray. When they are not smashed out of their skulls.

And, of course, they are over here where I may have my pick of them, not in some sweaty mosquito ridden swamp, avoiding death and disease like you. You think we care, in the Motherland, that we are banned from your games? You think it is coincidence that on the day the so called state doping scandal breaks, you find your games infested with the zika mosquito?

I will go further. Our sports scientists have worked hard to bring some enhanced eventing to Rio 2016.  Try, for example, beach zika ball, zika marksmanship, canoe zika sprint or my personal favourite synchronised diving into the zika pool. Yes, that little elf gnome Rory was right to stay away from South America with his golfing sticks, my friends.

So, enough. I declare these games open. But mothers and children? Stay away from that boating lake.

Thursday, 4 August 2016

The Seven Seas Sagas / POKEMON POKEMOV

The Seven Seas Sagas

These are the voyages of HMS Rigid.

Our continuing mission:
To maintain the safety and sovereignty of the blessed United Kingdom of British Islands.
To seek out and destroy enemies of the state without compunction, hesitation or mercy.
To boldly repel all boarders, all aliens and any other filthy non tax paying scum we encounter.


Rear Admiral Thundertosser’s Log
The Bridge, HMS Rigid

Position – Mediterranean Sea
Somewhere south of Gibraltar, possibly that bit too close to Morocco.

It’s the day. At sea. 

The midday sun is hot. Too hot. Hot enough to toast ship’s biscuits. Consequently, I have ordered chef to fill the starboard scupper with enough ship’s biscuits to treat the crew to a toasty ship’s biscuit party. 

Something they deserve this after this long, hard and dangerous deployment. Good for morale.  It will make a pleasant alternative to toasting our marshmallows with ship’s welding gear.

I am baking on the bridge of HMS Rigid. I think my muffins will soon be ready to come out of the oven. I am also very hot. Sticky with sweat, especially in the underpants area. I am forced to adopt the bowed, legs slightly apart stance, as promulgated by naval regulations. This avoids unwanted scrotal sac adhesion should an emergency arise.

The muffins are needed for an unscheduled top secret briefing from Vice Admiral McDuffear, Royal Naval Intelligence, Hunt and Destroy Division. No doubt with sealed orders. 

Orders that will, no doubt, require myself and my men to be put into danger. Deadly danger, I have no doubt.

Pleased to note in the log that despite the heat, Petty Officer Tongs and Midshipman Stonkly are up the fo'c'sle, lashed at their stanchions and ready to repel all boarders. 

We’re still no nearer to getting the sea to relinquish her boarder secrets, but we strive to tame and appease her by making daily sacrifice of gash over the side. Today she will receive burned muffins and unwanted hot ship’s biscuits

But wait. Who approaches? Is it the enemy?

No. It is Able Seaman Blowpipe with my cocoa.

How now, Blowpipe? How goes the watch?

Just wound it up, sir. Sorry about your cocoa, sir, I dropped the watch into it, sir, and it’s gone a bit brown.

You blundering jackanapes, Blowpipe. What if Vice Admiral McDuffear wants to know the time? I can hardly show him this, can I?

No, sir. It will look like you did a number two all over it, sir, and forgot to wash it.

Number Two? Officers don’t do those, Blowpipe, you blithering idiot. No. He’ll more likely think you were the person that did it and you’ll get fingered.

Oooo. Sorry, sir. I was distracted, sir. I think it’s the heat.


I was wondering why, on a hot day, sir, all the flies gather in the middle of a hotel lobby, buzzing around the lamp. I mean they could go anywhere, couldn’t they, sir? And yet, there they are, mindlessly buzzing about, banging each other. You could open your mouth, walk forward and get a gob full, sir.

Shut up, Blowpipe and stop dreaming about putting your mouth near flies, for heaven’s sake. You’ll need to keep your wits about you in front of Vice Admiral McDuffear. He’s as sharp as Cleopatra’s needle.

Sharp, sir? With a name like that I assumed he was deaf, sir.

What? You insubordinate scoundrel. Deaf? Of course he’s not deaf. Blind as a bat, though.

Stonkly (from the fo’c’sle):
Attention on deck. Pipe him aboard.

Right, here he comes, Blowpipe. Now pay attention and refrain from any more fly related fantasy.

Right you are, sir.

Admiral McDuffear, welcome aboard. Attention on the bridge.

Stand easy. Nice to see you again, Thundertosser.

Ah, excuse me, Admiral, that’s the bridge port hole. The Rear Admiral is over here, sir.

Course he is, course he is. Blast these new glasses, can’t see a bloody thing.

Bringing up the rear, Admiral, manning the bridge oven.

Excellent. Are those muffins I can smell, Thundertosser? Chocolate chip muffins?

They are Admiral, I thought I’d whip up a batch. I know how partial you are to a stuffed muffin. Are you sniggering, Blowpipe?

No sir. Bit of grit. In the eye, sir.

Damned nuisance. Grit getting shot in the eye. Happened to me twenty years ago while on a reconnaissance mission in a French brothel; never recovered.  Still never mind that, down to business. Now, Thundertosser. Bit of a flap on. Whitehall. Top secret orders. Storm cones hoisted. Man the battle stations. That sort of thing.

Yes, Admiral. HMS Rigid is standing by; ready to repel all boarders.

Ah, yes, but these particular enemies of the state are slightly more, how can I put it…unusual? Out of the ordinary, so to speak.

Not your common tax evading immigrant scum from Europe, then?

Ah, no. Not to put too fine a point on it, these are alien invaders, Thundertosser. Ministry gave me this book to help you locate them.

What does it say, sir?

‘The Observer’s Book of Pokemon-Go’, Blowpipe.

Correct, Thundertosser. Alien invaders. An absolute menace to the British way of life. They must be hunted and exterminated.

But I read recently that Pokemon-Go helped nerdy inner city slugabeds become more active in the real world. They actually started to interact with other members of the public. That it was good for fitness and helped the socially maladjusted, sir. Begging, your pardon, sir.

Nonsense. A tissue of lies and deceit spread by enemy agents from Lichtenstein and Poland. They must be destroyed and I’m deploying this ship to seek and destroy, as of now. These Pokemon are public enemy number one as far as the First Sea Lord is concerned.

Yes, shut up, Blowpipe, you insubordinate wretch. How do we start, Admiral? Is it in this top secret book?

How should I know? I can’t bloody read with these glasses, can I?

Allow me, sir. I attended a school near Brest in Brittany and can, therefore, read reasonably well. It says here: ‘Nidoking. With his thick tail he can topple a metal tower. Once he gets in a rage, there’s no stopping him.’

Thick tail? I don’t like the sound of that at all, Blowpipe.

Me neither, sir. I prefer long and thin, sir. Oh my word, sir, it says that Nidorino has a horn harder than a diamond, sir. And I don’t like the sound of Sandslash one little bit, sir.

What the blazes are you blithering on about, Able Seaman? Those are land Pokemon, for heaven’s sake. We’re only likely to encounter the seafaring types, such as Poliwhirl, Tentacruel and Kingler.

Oh, that’s a relief, sir. They sound much nicer.

Yes. All they do is emit a wet, slick, slimy fluid.

Sounds positively heavenly, sir.

Shut up, Blowpipe, you mutinous moron. Now, Admiral, how do we locate these alien scum?

It is most difficult because they’re alien shapeshifters. We have to turn on our mobile phones and wave them around a bit.

Where, Admiral?

I suggest over there. At that Russian frigate that’s bearing down at top speed with its guns trained on us.

You’re right, Admiral. There’s a Tentacruel on their quarterdeck, right now. Blowpipe. Hard a-port. Ramming speed. Stand by to open fire.

Hard a-port it is, sir! Ramming speed!

Meanwhile. On the fo'c'sle.

Oh dear. Another international incident.

Quiet, Tongs, you blithering idiot!

Sorry, sir. Just trying to disentangle my legs from this Russian block and tackle, sir. Can you smell burning muffins, sir?

Shut up, Tongs and mind your stanchion.

Right you are, sir. Do you think the Russians will complain, sir?

How should I know? Rear Admiral Thundertosser raised an Italian flag at the last moment. That should do the trick.

Who was in command of that Russian frigate, sir?

Counter Admiral Sergei Blindokov, I think.

Isn’t he as deaf as a post, sir?

Yes. Excellent eyesight, though; he will have spotted that flag no problem at all.

Oh look, sir!

What is it now, Tongs, you blabbering fool?

Pikachu, sir. Just hovering above the water, sir. Port side.

Wednesday, 3 August 2016

Be a Top Comedian


Don’t Worry!


Now – You can:


Learn: Satire, Sarcasm and Slapstick!

Here it is, free of charge, your very own comedy routine to help you ‘be a top comedian’.

Entertain large crowds in pubs!
Trouser wads of cash!

You will need:
  • One microphone
  • One tall wobbly stool
  • One humorous comedy novelty item from the following list:
Feather Duster; Megaphone; Pointing Stick; Tin of ‘Dubbin’; Partially Used Tube of Wart Remover; Stuffed Duck with Green Feathers Wearing a Nappy; Pair of Wellington Boots marked ‘Left’ and ‘Right’.
  • Some people
  • A hat for collecting money
  • A legal disclaimer should anybody die of laughter during your routine.


1.     Put the large stool in front of any drunken Friday night pub crowd
2.     Climb on top and ask for quiet
3.     Affect a comedy dialect voice – Scouse, Brummie, Yorkshireman, Scots. High pitched squeaking also works well.
4.     Begin by with a loud shout of ‘Way-Hay, What’s all this then?’

You: Feather dusters / Warts Remover /Tins of Dubbin / Megaphones / Pointing Sticks (delete as appropriate). What’s that all about, eh? Eh? (pause for laughter / wave chosen comedy novelty item at crowd)

You: The other day I went into the shop for a (insert chosen comedy novelty  item here) and I was told by the assistant I was in…the wrong shop!

You: She said: ‘You need the Feather Duster / Warts Remover / Dubbin / Megaphone / Pointing Stick (delete as appropriate) shop down by MacFisheries on the corner.’

You: Eh? I said, eh? You What? Are you European? Wouldn’t have happened in my day. Eh? Eh? What’s that all about? (Pause for applause to die down) 

You: Europeans, what’s that all about, eh? Eurozone? Eurozone? More like Poo-rozone. That’s what I think, Eh? This wouldn’t have happened in my day, I can tell you. (Pause to wait as St John’s ambulance members treat any laughter related heart attacks) 

You: Euros? Euros? What’s that all about, eh?  More like Poo-ros, that’s what I say. Am I right? Am I right?

You: Frog’s legs? Frog’s legs? What’s that all about, eh? What’s wrong with a cheese sandwich, eh? Would you like Camembert? Would you like Chorizo? Would you? Chorizo? More like Chor-shit-zo, that’s right, missus!

You:  No I wouldn’t like frog’s leg’s, Meester French frog swallowing baguette munching President Hollande, would I? Up yours, Delors. Brexit? Brexit? More like Sex-it, if you ask me, Herr Fritz and Senor Sausage – well we’re British so no Sex-it, if you please.

Collect handsome amounts of loose change in aforementioned hat and retire.
Do not donate 1% to the ‘People’s Pension’ or the ‘Big Society’. These are Government scams.

Tuesday, 2 August 2016

Grandad - Special Features

The two stanzas I felt didn't work in first draft in Special Lexicographical Definition


Can you see my spot on my arm?
I had two but one has gone back in now, Grandad.
The sucker monster lives in there, in my body.
It sucks the blood back in. I’m sad but glad.

Grandad, get the alarm clock to work when
I hide my head under your pillow.
I’m asleep.
Did I trick you? Wind it up! Wind me up, then...
you can be the liver man and liver all the mail;
I can be a scientist and draw us a boat and sail.

Monday, 1 August 2016



Grandad. Grandad. Today, I fell over
in the yard, at my house, on the step.
There is a cut on my cheek,
Grandad. I had to wear a plaster to bed.

No, I’m not tired, Grandad,
silly, this is my morning yawn.
Look - is the sun just coming up now?
What is that called? Dawn?
Why isn’t it dawn?

Is it breakfast yet, Grandad?
Grandad, what do you want to eat?
I can have milk, grapes, toast, cereal.
Grandad! Grandad! Can I put apple up my feet?

Can I get on your bed, Grandad? I can
get up all by myself now. I’m bouncing. Look.
I found some money, can I keep it? It’s mine.
I can pull this off your shelf, Grandad. Look. Your book.

Can I use this spaceship, Grandad?
My money’s safer in it. It’s my bank.
Penny goes in the doors, open them, put it in here…
then…take it out, see? Now...
we can run it over with this tank. Pow!

No, I’m not going back in bed
while you do your work, Grandad. Look, the
brown money fits in my hand, between two
fingers, and then…stretches and falls out. See?

Come on, Grandad, I’m sitting here outside
the door. What are you doing in there? Poo.
Tomorrow, we need to go in the car. Play trains.
Because I can’t sleep. I’m not tired. Grandad. I love you.