Chapter Thirty

Some exciting news to kick off this new and improved Chapter Thirty: I was approached by the Hollywood Foreign Press and asked if I wanted to host this year’s Oscars! Unfortunately my house is nowhere near big enough so I had to decline, but it was great to be asked.

Instead, I’ve been asked to present an award at the ceremony, which will actually be held at the Glasshouse Theatre in L.A. It really is quite an honour, and presumably the reason for my invitation is that I’m going to be awarded the Lifetime Achievement Award for my work in the motion pictures. That way they can kill two birds with one stone. Coincidentally, I’m co-presenting my award with Sharon Stone. So I guess they’re killing two birds with two stones? What was the other stone again? Is there also something about people in Glasshouse Theatres not throwing Stones? I wasn’t going to throw her anyway, but it’s good to remember.

Anywhooo, this year I will be presenting (with Shazza) the Academy Award for Best Motion Picture: Musical, Animation or Comedy. And there are plenty of very very VERY very good candidates for the prize. Here is a run-down of the nominated pictures:

1) Inside Llewelyn Bowen. In the Coen Brothers latest masterpiece, we find out what’s in this interior designer’s interior, or what’s inside Laurence Llewelyn Bowen if you will. We also find out what was inside one of those big sleeves of his. And Justin ‘Dirty Pop’ Timberlake’s in it. The film, not one of Laurence Llewelyn Bowen’s sleeves. Features music from Mumford without his sons.

2) American Hustle. Following in the footsteps of American Beauty, American Psycho, American Pie, American Werewolf in London and American History X, this film is undoubtedly one of the films with ‘American’ in it’s title. Features lots of good actors in stupid wigs.

3) Grown Ups 2. The film that finally united the greatest actors in film history. Was Heat in 1995. This is the sequel to Grown Ups. Which was rubbish. Probably. I didn’t see it. It stars Adam Sandler, Kevin James, David Spade and Chris Rock. Can you imagine watching that?! Madness.

4) Disney’s ‘Mobility Scooters’. A kind of sequel of sorts to Cars and Planes and any other ones they’ve done. Some mobility scooters have a race or something. They realise that what’s important isn’t winning the mobility scooter derby, but friendship. Stars Luke Wilson (Owen’s brother. Remember him?)

5) Cabaret (1972). Nominated due to an admin error.

I don’t want to give away the winner but all I’ll say is that Liza Minelli won’t be disappointed (she plays Trina the shopping trolley in Mobility Scooters).

I hope you enjoy the ceremony. And check out my new poetry website!

Luv ya.

Chapter 29: An Open Letter

Loyal readers (and new-comers {where have you been?!}), I know that you are used to me telling you all about my glorious career in the world of literature and film and television and journalism and music and inventing and scaffolding and deep-sea fishing and professional dominoes, but sadly today’s blog-post does not follow those rules. Today’s post is an open letter to the homophobes. Thank you for your time, I apologise for any inconvenience caused…

Dear homophobes, (Not as in ‘dear homophobes’ like “you know who I like, the dear old homophobes”, but as in ‘Dear homophobes’ like how you start a letter.)

I wish I could write personally to each and every one of you, but have instead devised this open letter for your perusal. I am aware that many homophobes wouldn’t like to label themselves as such (they hate labelling!), so I have devised a short test for you to help categorise yourself:

Q1: Which of the following phrases makes most sense to you:
a) “It’s Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve.”
b) “Being gay is a lifestyle choice”.
c) “I don’t mind them doing it, I just don’t want it rammed down my throat *chuckles at witty fellatio reference*”

If you answered with a, please read on. If you answered with b, please read on. If you answered with c, please read on. If you answered ‘none of the above’, why not read on anyway? It’s nice to join in.

I don’t understand the phrase “It’s Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve”. It makes no sense. Just because one thing exists, that doesn’t mean another thing can’t exist. It’s like saying “It’s Adam and Eve, not Jeremy Guscott”, and then picketing Jeremy Guscott’s wedding as a result. It’s like denouncing ‘The BFG’ because the Bible is also a book. It’s like going to a barbecue and chanting “It’s B&Q, not BBQ”. It’s ridiculous. B&Q sell BBQs!

Lots of people in America got all riled-up last year at the suggestion that Bert and Ernie from Sesame Street were gay. The protestations were about it being unfair to promote homosexuality to children through these puppet characters. Fair point. Why not show decent heterosexual puppet relationships, like Kermit and Miss Piggy? Let’s not be perturbed by the fact that Kermit is a frog banging a pig! (I use pig etymologically, of course, not as an insult to her looks. Miss Piggy is a total babe).

When people say “Being gay isn’t natural, it’s a lifestyle choice”, I don’t understand that either. Disregarding for a moment that this is glaringly incorrect, let’s pretend briefly that the accusation is true. Let’s pretend that being gay is in fact a lifestyle choice. So what?! What has someone else’s lifestyle choice got to do with you? Other famously accepted lifestyle choices include: wearing jeans, playing bingo, dressing dogs in human clothes, clapping, competing in dressage, doing the worm, drinking soya milk, humming and fencing. We’re not born with any of these things. But that doesn’t mean I don’t want you to do them.

Actually, stop dressing up dogs in human clothes, it’s fucking stupid.

I watched the film ‘Behind the Candelabra’ earlier this year. All the reviews I read mentioned how ‘gay’ or ‘unashamedly gay’ or ‘wonderfully gay’ it was. I found that weird. Here is my subsequent review of ‘Sleepless in Seatlle’:

'Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan star in this fantastically heterosexual romantic comedy about two straight twenty-somethings looking for un-gay love. Five stars (not faggot stars).'

Sexuality doesn’t have to be the thing which defines us. If you ask people what they think of Elton John, for example, most of them will mention his sexuality before they mention how great a song ‘Rocket Man’ is, or how his hair is reminiscent of a stapled-down hamster, or how his husband looks like a melting Ken doll. I’ve always thought ‘David Furnish’ sounds more like an instruction than a name, anyway.

I write this letter to you, homophobes of the world, to express my disappointment.

I understand where you gathered your views, of course. Homophobia is in fact rammed down our throats (lol) way more than homosexuality is, be it through playground taunting, or 1-dimensional television caricatures, or bigoted Grandads, or those hideous Fosters Gold adverts. But that doesn’t mean you can’t take a step back and think rationally about the way you think, the way you act, and the way you talk.

How would you like it if you walked into a community of lesbian women and someone shouted “Watch out girls, the straights are coming, fronts against the walls!” and all laughed? Admittedly that analogy doesn’t make any sense, but I hope you get my gist.

Thank you for reading my letter,

I look forward to hearing from you soon,

Yours uncharacteristically passionately,

Johnny Jenkins.

Chapter Twenty-Eight: ‘Ohhhh! This guy, huh.’

Hello fans and welcome to my latest blog-post, paying tribute to the late James Gandolfini, star of HBO’s ‘The Sopranos’.

As I doffed my ‘Cleaver’ cap to the great man last night, over a plate of Ziti and a glass of Glenlivet 12 Scotch, I remembered my own attempts to pen a mafia-based drama series, which was shelved after the sudden and unexpected success of the Soprano’s in 1999.

'The Castratos' was an ensemble piece aiming to shed a light on the British mafia, casting a satirical glance at the crime families of both York and Jersey. Gianni 'Jenkins' Castrato was, on the surface, the archetypal strong family man, but behind his hard shell was a softer interior. Like all tortoises. Oh, yeah, he was a tortoise. They were all tortoises. Tortoise crime families.

The pilot episode was about…oh yeah, he was a pilot…Gianni struggling with the pressures of becoming the first ever tortoise mob boss family man commercial airline pilot, as he spilled his heart out to his psychiatrist Dr Melbi. Played by Mel B. In her first acting role since ‘Spice World: The Movie’.

Meanwhile his wife, Lola, played by a needy falcon, an Edie Falco lookalike in fact, put pressure on him to be the man of the house. He found it impossible to truly escape the home. Partly because it was attached to his back, and also because of the demanding nature of his children, Gianni Jr and Michelle.

Featuring a cast of real-life mobsters and some tortoises, ‘The Castratos’ showed a gang war come very close to the boil. Sorry, not mobsters, lobsters. Gianni’s rival was played by a real-life lobster. Come to think of it, I’m not surprised HBO never picked it up. Because of those pincers.

Sadly, ‘The Castratos’ was never commissioned by any television network, but thankfully this (frankly bizarre) decision gave the world ‘The Sopranos’, a truly great television drama, starring one of the most powerful yet vulnerable actors of modern times.

I was lucky enough to work with James Gandolfini when I co-directed his documentary ‘James GandalfBeeney’ about a collaboration between 90s indie group ‘James’, fictional wizard ‘Gandalf’ and television interior design expert Sarah Beeney. It was absolutely terrible and made no sense whatsoever, but the passion Gandolfini brought to GandalfBeeney made it all worth while.

So here I am, paying my respects to a wonderful performer.


Johnny ‘Sac’ Jenkins.

Chapter Twenty-Seven: The Matthew McConaughey Special

As I was walking through the mysterious set of underground train tunnels I recently stumbled across in London (seriously, they’re everywhere!) I saw a piece of promotional material for Matthew McConaughey’s latest blockbuster, ‘Mud’. On this poster there was a quote from a journalist (I don’t remember which one, maybe someone from Smash Hits Magazine) that said “McConaughey gives the performance of his career.” This got me thinking.

Saying “McConaughey gives the performance of his career” is a bit like saying “Horse makes best backflip attempt yet.”

"McConaughey gives the performance of his career" is akin to "Pomegranate tries its hardest to beat-box."

"McConaughey gives the performance of his career" is like "Stephen Hawking breaks 200m personal best."

"Hitler undergoes least offensive hate rally so far."

"Digestive biscuit gets its closest yet to inventing the hover-board."

"One particular onion looks more like Lenny Henry than any other onion does."

"Least shit ITV sitcom."

You get the idea.

In case you didn’t get the idea, I’m saying I don’t think Matthew McConaughey is very good at acting.

He’s probably better than me though, so maybe I shouldn’t judge him too harshly. I mean, he’s been in films and stuff. I haven’t. The only acting I’ve done was when I played Michael Parkinson in that advert where he tells you to insure your Parker Pen. Oh and I was in ‘Frost/Nixon’. I played Frost/Nixon. Can’t remember which. But Matthew McConaughey has been in loads of stuff, so I feel bad now about slagging him off. I’m sure he’s an incredibly talented man with bags of charisma and screen presence.

Here’s to Matthew McConaughey!

What a man.

Chapter Twenty-Six

It’s been six and a half years or so since I last posted in this blog ( so here is a comprehensive account of what I have been up to since my last update. It’s been a tumultuous time for me (perhaps, I’m not sure what ‘tumultuous’ means but it sounds impressive) and I have done a lot of tumultuous things, with tumultuous consequences.

I was contacted by the UK Minister of Sport, Hugh Robertson, to use my creativity to design new campaigns to eliminate discrimination amongst sportsmen (and ladies), supporters, and sports officials, as a development to the largely unsuccessful ‘Kick Racism Out Of Football’ campaign.

Beginning with ‘Bat Racism Out of Cricket’, I then moved on to ‘Bowl Homophobia Out Of Bowls’, ‘Serve and Volley Sexism Out Of Lawn Tennis’, and the most successful of them all, ‘Wink Transphobia Out Of Wink Murder’.

I was contacted by a confectionary company to put liberal messages in sticks of rock as part of the ongoing ‘Rock Against Racism’ campaign.

I was contacted by the Classical Music Association to work on the ‘Baroque Against Racism’ campaign.

I then moved, for a brief spell, into publishing, with my most notable work being Fifty Cent’s novella, ‘Fiddy Shades Of Grey’. I also oversaw production of the yearly guidebook on producing instruction manuals, ‘The Manual Annual’, as well as a book instructing the reader on how they can write their own: ‘The Manual Annual Manual’. By Paul Daniels. At ‘Spaniel Publishing’. ‘The Annual Spaniel Daniels’ Manual Annual Manual’, to give it its proper title.

I then designed a really psychologically dark 3D 80s puzzle, the Stanley Kubrick’s Cube. It was removed from shelves due to copyright difficulties.

I then pitched a new psychologically dark winter sports programme to the BBC, Roman Polanski Sunday. They turned it down due to copyright difficulties.

I then asked Christopher Nolan if he wanted to be involved in The Nolans’ comeback tour. He accepted. Their comeback single, “I’m In The Mood For Dancing (Rises)”, flew into the charts at number 632.

We then worked together on another reboot of a kitsch classic: ‘Scatman Begins’. Here we see Scatman John taken from his comic past and reinvented as a troubled anti-hero for a post-9/11 generation. The script is currently on its 14th draft.

That’s all for now. I was thinking of something along the lines of ‘Keith Duffy the Vampire Slayer’ but it didn’t work and I was getting worried that my references weren’t topical enough. Although anything which references Scatman John, The Nolans and the Rubik’s Cube can’t be too far behind the times.

Happy Easter, have a tumultuous holiday!

Chapter Twenty-Five

I’ve been told recently that maybe my writing isn’t parabolic enough. Yeah, you heard, parabolic. So here is a short parable I’ve penned by the name of ‘Dominic Littlewood and the CBS Special’:

Dominic Littlewood strode out of his meeting with Clark Kerry, chief executive of television network CBS, with a spring in his step (stride).
It could not be denied that the last hour had been successful, and the enthusiastic pitch for ‘Cowboy Cowboys’ (a show about rogue cowboys) had made Kerry leap out of his seat with such vigour that his toupée had flown into the lavish ceiling fan, resembling a hairy kestrel as it flew about the room.
Dominic grinned from ear to ear and back again as he remembered the last words he had heard. “We’ll be in touch, Mr Littlewood.”
The words rung in his ears (the same ears he was grinning to and from - perhaps his mouth wanted a closer listen). You can’t very well go around telling people you were going to be in touch if you then didn’t get in touch, and why would the network giant get in touch unless they were going to offer the cheeky tradesman his own lucrative career on American television?
Breaking America had always been a dream of Littlewood’s.
Many had tried and failed before, from Handy Andy to Robbie Williams, and there was no way that Dominic was getting labelled with those losers.
He had, in fact, gone to school with Handy Andy, when he was still known as Handrew Andrew, and the pair used to spar constantly over who was the loveable cockney handyman of the class. H.A always won, but it was his shorter, balder classmate who was about to have the last laugh.
Bald from birth (like many babies), Littlewood did briefly feel the sweet luxury of hair between the ages of 2 and 6 before his hairline (along with his confidence) began to recede.
As you may imagine, his schoolmates were not forgiving of his hairlessness, and they never ceased to find more and more creative ways to humiliate the young Dominic.
“You look like a faggot!” they would say, not in a homophobic way, but in reference to the small, round, hairless meat products that go by that name.
“You’re balder than Duncan Goodhew!” they would shout, which was interesting because it was 1974, and not only was Goodhew not yet famous, but he also still had a fabulous head of hair.
“Slap-head Midget Bastard Littlewood!” called Mr Fisher as he took the register in Maths class.
But none of that mattered any more. He had made it.
He hailed a classic yellow New York taxi, just because he could. That was the sort of thing they did in the movies, and appearing in those movies was surely the next step. Not just movies about New York taxis. Others too. Other movies AND other taxis. (eg black cab).
“Where to, sir?” inquired the taxi driver, a fat Italian-American with a cigarette hanging from his mouth, a cigarette slotted behind his ear, and a cigarette stuck up his nose.
Dominic wasn’t about to let the eccentricity of one cabbie ruin his day.
“172 West 19th Street Boulevard please, me old mucka!” he exclaimed.
For the whole journey back to his hotel (2 star; he wasn’t a mega-star quite yet!), Dominic preached about his personal success story, from builder’s yard, to Channel 5, to whatever the future held.
“If you follow your dreams you can be whatever you want to be,” he asserted, inaccurately, “You just have to try.”
“You gotta dream big!” agreed the cab driver, through a mouthful of cigarettes.
Back in his hotel that night, Littlewood couldn’t sleep a wink. Not a single wink. Not like those winks the rest of us were sleeping that night. Zero winks.
He awoke the next morning at 6am (he always did; he’s a professional) and waited by the phone.
There was no call.
Not a problem, he thought to himself, they wouldn’t have the contract sorted quite yet, and they didn’t say WHEN they were going to be in touch.
He signed on for another night at the hotel.
He spent the next day glued to the phone (not literally) and the next night glued to his bed (not literally).
Still no call.
On the 19th day he decided that maybe he should take the initiative and call CBS.
He lifted the receiver.
He slammed down the receiver.
It was too early.
Dominic was a patient man.
The one thing, above all else, that he was proud of was how patient he was.
Apart from his eagle-eye for shoddy building work.
It went ‘eagle-eye for shoddy building work’, then his easy-going presenting style, and then his patience.
Tied with his loveable demeanour.
Anyway, patience was certainly in the Top Ten.
So he waited.
Six weeks later he picked up the phone once again.
…Was the sound of the receiver being slammed down again.
What was he going to say?
You can’t exactly go around demanding to put on air.
Or can you?
What if they were just putting the finishing touches to a lucrative contract and his over-zealous pestering destroyed the deal?
The hotel costs were getting out of hand, what with the (frankly ludicrous, thought the ever-frugal Littlewood) nightly charges, the minibar costs (after all, who could say no to 30 millilitres of Bells whiskey?) and the cost of room service. In fact, if (and it was a big if) CBS didn’t call, and there was no contract, Littlewood would barely be able to afford the cost of his trip.
He slipped back onto his bed and flicked on the TV.
The announcer bellowed.
“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the hottest new show in town…”
Dom’s jaw hit the ground (not literally) as the titles flew onto the screen in a somewhat ostentatious left-to-right wipe.
“…60 Minute Rogue DIY From Hell Under the Hammer…”
It couldn’t be.
“…And please welcome your host…”
Surely not.
“…Loveable cockney tradesman…”
“…Nick Knowles!”
As the audience applauded, Dominic fell silent.
On the bus to the airport, Dominic was silent.
As he boarded the plane, Dominic was silent.
As he slumped through customs, the security staff laughing hysterically at his hilarious passport photo, Dominic was silent.
He was silent for the whole journey home, OK?
He slipped his keys in his front door and swung it open, allowing him to step into the large hallway, which looked un-hoovered in months.
“Carol!” he called.
No answer.
He checked the bedroom.
“Carol? It’s me, Dom!”
His wife was nowhere to be seen.
As he wandered into the kitchen he saw a slip of paper, folded in half, with ‘Dom x’ scrawled upon it.
He didn’t know a ‘Dom X’, and there certainly wasn’t one living in his house, so he assumed Carol’s dyslexia had kicked in again, and the note must be for him.
He opened it up.
“Dear Dom L,” (that was better) “I’ve left you. I’m sorry. Please don’t be too upset. Maybe we were never meant to be. Carol.”
And that was it.
Dominic was left with nothing.
No wife. No money. No CBS contract. Nothing.
And the moral of this parable?
Never trust Carol Smillie. She’ll only break your heart.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Since my last update you will be delighted to hear that I celebrated my 24th birthday (I don’t remember ‘celebrating’ the first two or three but they still count).

I know what you’re thinking and yes, it is amazing how much I’ve achieved in such a short space of time. While all my contemporaries’ lives have been about as successful as Gillette’s “Arbeit Mach 3” campaign, my life has gone from strength to strength. To strength!

Many notable figures from history had achieved far less than me by the age of 24. For example, Neil Armstrong had only crawled on the moon, Michael Jackson had only had eleven number one singles, and Dr Fox was still in his 4th year of medical school. Dr Fox references are still topical, right? You know, Dr Fox from the ‘Pepsi Chart Show’ and ‘Popstars: The Rivals’.

Compared to these absolute nobodies, you would have to say I am quite the high achiever. Here are just a select few of my proudest moments.

> Age 1: Stood (mildly assisted).
> Age 2: First word (“bendy-bus”).
> Age 3: First invention (bendy-bus).
> Age 4: Made first school friend (Jonathan Bendybus).
> Age 5: 13 A*s at GCSE.
> Age 6: Climbed Kilimanjaro.
> Age 7: Descended Kilimanjaro.
> Age 8: Got first job (bending buses).
> Age 9: Got a Knighthood. Told my Mum that Knights didn’t wear hoods. Given suit of armour instead.
> Age 10: Took A-Levels. Got un-amusing grades. (AAC) (Told you).
> Age 11: Went to university. Awarded maximum funding: Maintenance Loan, Full Tuition Grant, Hugh Grant, Cary Grant, Grant Mitchell, Homer Loan and Homer Loan 2: Lost in New York.
> Age 12: Invented this emoticon :=() (Cleft lip smiley).
> Age 13: Won a spelling bee. It was crap, couldn’t spell at all.
> Age 14: Swam with dolphins. The Miami Dolphins American Football team, to be precise. Decent swimmers.
> Age 15: Graduated. Johnny Jenkins, BA (Barachus). Thrown out of graduation ceremony for shouting “I ain’t puttin’ on no mortar-board, fool!” at the Vice Chancellor.
> Age 16: Got a job as Miami Vice Chancellor.
> Age 17: Won the Nobel Prize for literature. Caused controversy when I inserted the trophy into my rectum. Apparently he’d said “given annually”.
> Age 18: Legally allowed to drink. Big relief as I was bloody thirsty.
> Age 19: Bought a yacht. Joined a yacht club. Went yacht-racing. Had to sell yacht following mental breakdown over bizarre spelling of ‘yacht’. Seriously, ‘yacht’?
> Age 20: Hired as Hilary Swank’s stunt double in PS I Love You. Very few stunts.
> Age 21: Bought a racehorse. Won the 2,000 Guineas. Nowhere would convert it into modern money.
> Age 22: Bought own house. Gave myself an exceptional price.
> Age 23: Voted ‘Most likely to be a billionaire by 24’ by ‘Business Sense’ magazine.
> Age 24: ‘Business Sense’ magazine folds. In half. And I hide my billion pounds in it.

So there we have it. Just some of my achievements. Hopefully there are plenty more to come in the future. Now go out, be inspired, and achieve something yourself. You too can be like me if you really put your mind to it.*

God speed.

*DISCLAIMER: You probably can’t.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Has anyone noticed that I haven’t really been posting on here? That’s because I’m a serious writer these days. I’m a man of letters. Letters like B, and K. All the letters. I’ve been published now. I wrote a pamphlet. Which means ‘baby pamph’. Like a piglet. My pamphlet was about the power of disability sports to help improve self-esteem. But I competed in the paraplegic swimming and finished last so my self-esteem wasn’t helped at all. I did get tickets to that event where they sit around all day clinging to rocks. The Paralimpets. I watched the Paralympic 100m final for athletes with no necks, which finished head and head.The Olympics weren’t the only sports on TV since last time I posted. There’s been a lot of tennis. Tennis always reminds me of my childhood, because my nickname at school was ‘ball-boy’. No, wait, ‘ball-bag’. Because I always carried a bag of tennis balls home from my shifts as a ball-boy. Great Britain did really well in the Olympics medal table, which is a very strange event which is more to do with carpentry than sporting ability. My mother was a carpenter. Karen Carpenter. Not THAT Karen Carpenter. That one wasn’t a carpenter. She was a singer. My mother’s a carpenter, as I just told you. Her father was a carpenter as well. He was a very old-fashioned man. I’m not saying he was un-PC, but he called mixed salad ‘half-leaves’, he called the American sprinter ‘Tyson Queer’, and he called black pudding ‘stodgy breakfast blood-cake’. Not everything he said was offensive. My grandfather wasn’t a proud man. He had nothing to be proud of, the old bigot. After my grandmother died he married 11 times. Until they realised he wasn’t actually ordained as a priest and banned him from the Church. He really loved his hobbies, though. Making false teeth out of sultanas was his reason for being alive. His ‘raisin denture’, if you will. My grandmother was a recording artist. Karen Carpenter. Not that one. My grandmother played the accordion. In the Carpenters. Not the band. The shop which my grandfather ran. Past. On his way to work as a travelling carpenter. I think I got my love of travelling from him. I love travelling. Give me a good 40-minute commute into Central London any day. I used to jump off those trains every day in my time off between school and university. My Mind the Gap Year. That’s a terrible joke. Proving that I can’t spend my time doing these stupid puns any more. I’m serious now. I write serious things. I wrote the latest episode of the HBO show where Louie Spence plays a lepidopterist who designs flamboyant regal chairs for the bugs he catches, ‘Gay Moth Thrones’. I ghost-wrote Tom Daley’s autobiography, but the publishers decided it was a bit weird the way I wrote it like he was a ghost. ‘Woooooooooh…it takes a lot of practice to compete in the 10m diving fiiiiiiinal’ was the last straw and I was axed from that project. I’ve written lots of big things recently. 50 Shades of Grey. The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo. War Horse. I’ve written things that are a bit like all of those. War Mule is a particularly powerful novel. I wrote the treatment for a music video for Lionel Richie’s new single. My concept was a blind man falling in love with a girl and making a clay sculpture of her head. Apparently he’s done that before. I don’t know what else I could have done for a single called ‘Blind Man’s Clay Head Sculpture’, but whatever. It’s a great song by the way. Anyway, I must get back to my SERIOUS writing now, for my pen is my strongest weapon. Apart from my sword. That’s way mightier.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Avid readers will have noticed that the original Chapter Twenty-Two has gone missing from this website. This is because I deleted it. Because I hated it. Sorry. I will re-use one of the jokes in the future, so look out for that, readers. A prize will be given to the first person who notices. But that will be me, because I read it first. As I write it.

ANYWAY, welcome to this exclusive advertising special of Novel Novelist, inspired by the frankly brilliant slogan for nappies, ‘What happens in Pampers stays in Pampers’, which I genuinely think is genius. Here are some other slogans you may not have noticed.

> Get your cash out for the lads. Natwest: Proud sponsors of Euro 2012.

That’s all I’ve got.

I heard some rumours today. Apparently David Cameron didn’t get an over-riding majority at the last general election because he kissed too many babies. With tongues.

Apparently Tom Hanks doesn’t actually Hank.

Apparently Hosni Mubarak tried to introduce an Egyptian school holiday called Arab Spring Break.

Apparently 20th Century Fox are planning an updated George Bernard Shaw blockbuster called Pygmalion vs Predator.

That’s all I’ve got.

This’ll do for now. Bye.

Chapter Twenty-One

As a writer, it is important that I keep with all forms of modern culture, so this week I have been listening to a lot of inspirational music, to try and get the novel back on track. (When I said last time it was going really well, I was lying, OK?! Happy now?) I don’t really know much music that has been released since around 1981, so I’ve been whipping out my favourite 12-inches (innuendo courtesy of someone not funny in the 70s) and listening to my favourite tunes. I’ve also included some modern tracks for you young whippersnappers. Here are just a few of the songs that have been inspiring me this week:

Nelson Mande la Soul - 46664 Is The Magic Number.

Paul Simon - Still Crazy After All These Years, See, I’m Even Selling Sofas Now. (

Celine Dion - My Heart Will Go On 3D Re-Release.

Hmm this isn’t as funny as I thought it would be. What else has been happening in my life? 

I’ve been cast in the new Dustin Hoffman film, ‘Raindance: Rain Man the Musical’. I play Big Chief Sitting Duck. I’m a protestor in the casino scene. It’s a highly politically insensitive movie. 

I’ve been playing the new DS game, in which you play as Zorro’s father. It’s called ‘The Legend of Z Elder’. No pun intendo.

I co-wrote a song with Travis, about how all Sikh males are forced to take the last name Singh. ‘Singh, Singh, Singh’. It’s a double A-Side with ‘The Grass is Always Greener on the Other Sayid’. That one makes less sense.

I started work on my Burt Bacharach biography, but haven’t got much further than the opening line: ‘“Burt Bacharach” burped Burt Bacharach, who’d learned to burp “Burt Bacharach”.’ The only other line I have is from the section in which Bacharach visited the Guggenheim and found it to be totally inferior to other famous galleries and museums he’d visited. ‘“What the world needs now,” Burt chuckled to himself, “is Louvre, sweet Louvre”.’ Burt Bacharach has yet to sign off on the rights. 

On the 3rd of April I went on a blind date with a cockerel. I wasn’t attracted to him at all. Then again, I’m no spring chicken.

I pitched my new BBC game-show ‘Louis Theroux the Keyhole’. I’m still waiting to hear back.

I was cast in Dustin Hoffman’s new film, ‘Bahrain Man’. I was cast in Dustin Hoffman’s new video-game remake, ‘Rayman’. I was cast in Dustin Hoffman’s new film, ‘Rayman vs Rain Man’. 

If anyone has any other suggestions for Dustin Hoffman films please email  

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