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.
It’s been six and a half years or so since I last posted in this blog (www.internet.com/blog@johnnyjenkins/google.co.uk/readmyblog) 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!
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.
5…..5…..5…..0…
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.
5…..5…..5…..0…..1…..
Slam!
…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.
CBS.
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…”
Unless…?
“…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.
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.
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.
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.
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. (http://lh3.ggpht.com/G9c0zeYNo2fGt8pPXitfBkALOy4KNCtVFJO_EQlEQSJL_lqDwNLr9oG941trGu6MYGRE6yyHA-siUOfB=s320)
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 DustinHoffman@yahoo.com.
Now, my friends, the time has come to raise the roof and have some fun. Throw away all work to be done, and read the twentieth instalment of this blog. It won’t all be paraphrasing Lionel Richie songs, though. I’m going to talk about my novel.
It’s coming along wonderfully. 40,000 words written. It’s being adapted into 13 languages. Including Windings. For the people of Windingia. It’s being brought out in hardback, paperback and Nickelback. It’s being published by Penguin which I believe means it will have a funny Iceberg-based joke on the back. They’re bringing out an audiobook version rapped by Jedward. It’s going in Richard and Judy’s Book Club. Actually, I’m not sure that still exists now that their programme is only available through Skype. But if it does exist my novel will be on it. It’s going on Penguin Classics’ “100 Books to Read Before You Die” but only because 4 elderly relatives of mine passed away immediately after reading the first draft. Julian Fellowes is adapting it into an over-rated television series. Morgan Spurlock’s doing a documentary where he sits in a cage and does nothing but read my novel for 8 weeks to see whether reading is bad for you.
I say I’ve written 40,000 words. And that is true. But I accidentally clicked on something which alphabetises entire documents, and couldn’t work out how to put it back how it was, so the first paragraph currently reads:
‘Abstract Ache Ache Aches Aching Added Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Also Also Always And And And And And And And And And And And And And And And And And And And And And And And And And And And And And And.’
The main character’s brother is called Alan.
Here is a letter I recently wrote to the commissioners at all the major British television networks:
“Dear Sir/Madam,
I am writing to complain about the frankly staggering number of dating shows currently on television.
The first I shall discuss is the Paddy McGuiness vehicle ‘Take Me Out’. From its unnoticed cry-for-help suicidal title, I can only sense that McGuiness was forced into hosting this programme due to some kind of mafia-style debt to ITV? I know ‘Max & Paddy’ was abysmal but it still seems harsh holding him to ransom while Peter Kay is allowed to roam free from persecution.
It isn’t even the banal promotion of vanity which upsets me, or even the suggestion that the ‘Isle of Fernandos’ might be some kind of exotic destination for a holiday. What really hurts me to see are Paddy McGuiness’ quasi-euphemistic lines such as ‘Let the batter see the sausage’, ‘Let the Poly see the Filla’ and ‘Let the fanny see the dong.’ For such an esteemed actor to be forced through threat of violence to speak these words makes me feel not only angry, but physically ill, and I for one would like to see McGuiness back where he belongs: on high-quality television. Maybe some kind of HBO thing. A detective show where he and Alec Guiness are troubled cops. Troubled cops who love guiness. ‘Guiness, Guiness and McGuiness’, they could call it. You can have that one for free.
Anyway, if I wanted to watch thirty women leering over one man I’d go to a Shakin’ Stephens concert.
Yeah, take that, Shakin’ Stephens. How d’you like them apples?
Another programme I wish to complain about is Sky’s ‘The Love Machine’, presented by Stacey Solomon and Chris Moyles or, as I like to call the double-act, ‘Solomon-Gomorrah’. Now obviously I haven’t actually watched this programme (why would I?), but it upsets me that it exists. From what I can tell from the advert there’s like a giant revolver barrel full of men, and then Chris Moyles does a joke, and then a woman goes “he’s fit” and then Stacey Solomon says “Gnahfraf nawflaw schma!” and then they all eat some Iceland sausage rolls and sing ‘Driving Home For Christmas’. That, for me, is not television.
Then there’s ‘Dating in the Dark’. I have no issues with this programme. It’s brilliant. And not at all sleazy. I like the bits where they start making out with total strangers in a pitch-black television studio, and then the lights come on and they decide that actually the stranger is too ugly and the end. Those bits are great. Seriously, great show. And it’s presented by the alcoholic one from Girls Aloud. It’s really very good.
Then there’s Channel 4’s Western-themed dating show, ‘Annie, Get Your Gun, You’ve Pulled’.
Then there’s that show hosted by former Atomic Kitten member Mary Avoid on BBC3 where she tries to get people to kiss her. I don’t really get it. You know the one, ‘Snog Mary Avoid’.
My main problem with this barrage of date-based programming currently on our screens is that it just isn’t realistic or representative of the love-lives of the audience. The closest I have come to a date recently was when I was walking somewhere when it was dark and a woman was walking in front of me, and I was naturally walking a bit quicker than her, and she got scared and started walking quicker, then I sped up to try and over-take her, then she broke into a run so I felt bad and sprinted after her, shouting “I’m not going to rape you! Honest! Don’t run!”
Thank you for reading my letter, television commissioners, and I hope you listen to what I have had to say.
Yours,
Johnny Jenkins.
PS ‘Dating in the Dark’ is brilliant. ”
So, it’s awards season again, and all across the globe films that haven’t been released yet are winning trophies for ‘Film of the Year’ and ‘Best Film You Plebs Haven’t Seen Yet But Will Buy On DVD Now Because You’re Humourless Cretins Void Of All Free Thought’.
The world watched open mouthed as Ricky Gervais insulted some people, everyone gasped at the announcement of the ‘Best Animated Short’ BAFTA, and many more blogged as some women wore some expensive shoes that didn’t quite match their expensive dresses. (Best animated short was awarded to Bart Simpson’s shorts. Again.)
But now it is time for the awards you’ve all been waiting for. Yes, friends, it’s the 2012 Jenkins Awards.
This prestigious ceremony, now in its first year, rewards the best of cinema in the past twelve months, with a judging panel of leading experts such as Johnny Jenkins. The awards have received criticism in some quarters for ‘making the films up’ but I can assure you that the vast team of great legal minds, including such respected figures as Johnny Jenkins, have done all they can to ensure things are run with honesty and dignity. So ladies and gentlemen, here is your host, Mister Johnny Jenkins, with the nominations for the first award of the night, ’Best Actor/Actress Who Hilariously Plays More Than One Part In The Same Film’:
Eddie Murphy for ‘Saddam and Eve’ - Murphy plays both Saddam Hussein and his wacky sister Eve in this laugh-out-loud political thriller.
Adam Sandler for ‘Osama Chameleon’ - Sandler plays both Osama Bin Laden and his wacky pet chameleon ‘Karma’ in this laugh-out-loud Culture Club-inspired political thriller musical.
Martin Lawrence for ‘Lewinski-Korsakov’ - Lawrence plays both former Clinton secretary Monica Lewinski and wacky celebrated 20th Century Russian composer Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov in this laugh-out-loud historical political orchestral romp.
Cher for ‘Cher and Cher Alike’ - Cher plays both Cher and Cher in this laugh-in-your-head Cher biopic.
WINNER - Zac Efron for ‘I Have a Dreamcast’ - Efron plays both Martin Luther King and a boy from 1999 who has just received a Sega Dreamcast console for his twelfth birthday in this cry-out-loud politically charged time-travel civil rights thriller horror smash.
The nominees for ‘Convincingest Delivered Line in a Film’ are:
Mark Wahlberg for “Huh?” in ‘The Incident’.
Mark Wahlberg for “What?” in ‘The Accident’.
Mark Wahlberg for “But…why?” in ‘The Indictment’.
Mark Wahlberg for “No way.” in ‘The Inciting Incident’.
WINNER - Mark Wahlberg for “Forgive me for intruding, sir, but unfortunately I believe your hypothesis to be wholly inaccurate, and in brutal honesty I have become somewhat fatigued with your lackadaisical and quite frankly reprehensible use of pseudo-science to try to prove an alarmingly outdated perspective, unquestionably garnered through what can only be described as a childhood of ignorance teamed mercilessly with an adolescence of arrogance.” in ‘Evolutionary Revolution’. (Award was to be rescinded on the discovery that Mark Wahlberg was not actually in this film, but following the two hours it took Wahlberg to try and read his 8-word acceptance speech out loud, the judging panel stopped caring.)
The less funny nominees for ‘Goodest Sequel or Remake’ are:
‘My Parents Are Aliens vs Predator’ - For fans of both the early-2000s CITV children’s series and the gruesome action film franchise. Niche.
‘Quintrophenia’ - Rock Opera by the Who, following on from the success of ‘Quadrophenia’ and its prequels ‘Triophenia’, ‘Biophenia’ and the less successful “…One-o-phenia…?”.
‘Mermaid in Manhattan’ - Remake of the Jennifer Lopez classic, with her role taken on by a dead fish with a charcoal drawing of a human face stapled onto its head. Far, far better than the original.
‘The Fresh Prince of Bel Air Witch Project’ - Self-explanatory.
WINNER - ‘Night at The Museum 3: Battle of the Keswick Pencil Museum’ - Ben Stiller stars as a man who’s a bit like Ben Stiller in this fantastic comedy adventure for all the family. Co-stars Robin Williams, Owen Wilson and 3B.
And here are some winners from earlier this evening:
‘Best Documentary Feature’ - ‘Walken on Sunshine’.
‘Best Actress in a Leading Roll’ - Meryl Streep for ‘Margaret Thatcher Hides in a Swiss Roll’.
‘Lifetime Achievement Award’ - Mark Wahlberg.
Just kidding.
‘Best Documentary Short’ - ‘Walken on the Moon’.
‘Stupidest Name’ - M Night Shyamalan.
‘Best Sound Editing’ - Who cares?
‘Biggest Ackman’ - Hugh Jackman.
‘Best Song in a Motion Picture’ - ‘Walken in the Air’.
And now, the moment you’ve all been waiting for. The end.
