How Not to Write a Script for the BBC

I have been trying to write a script for the BBC. Not that they actually asked me to. They generally asked the world to. So, seeing as I am in and of the world I thought ‘I can do that.’

I appear to be somewhat wrong. It’s going to be 36 pages long. I’ve written 30 pages. Page 31 is tricky. I thought of jumping straight to page 36 but a leap of six pages seems dangerous to body and possibly sanity.

It’s called writer’s block I think. I’m attempting to cure it by some serious research. This is what I’m doing:

Checking my emails to see if anyone has emailed me pages 31-36.

Reading my google iPage to see if Wikihow offers pages 31-36 or my horoscope predicts that I will soon write the aforementioned pages.

Looking at the Radio Times page to see if there’s anything good on the TV that I could be watching that might tell me about pages 31-36.

Checking my emails to see if anyone has emailed me pages 31-36.

Seeing the random ways people have found my blog. This turns out quite interesting. Most people, as usual, want to know how to tell if a man fancies them. Others have wondered about shoes, g-spots (I wonder about those too), sausages (I’m sure I never mentioned them), tents, grey, and how to stop someone fancying you. I actually know the answer to that – fancy them.

Checking my emails to see if anyone has emailed me pages 31-36.

Looking on Facebook to see if anyone knows what’s on pages 31-36.

Writing a blog post about why I haven’t written pages 31-36.

Googling ‘pages 31-36’. I’ve found:
Dancewear,
Preventative Cardiology (I assume that’s like not fancying anyone ever),
Stimulus-driven Attentional Capture (I guess that’s trying to make someone fancy you by prodding them with electricity),
Cornelius C. Platter’s diary (anyone with a name like that should have their diaries eaten alive),
Resonant Tunneling and Coulomb Oscillations (probably what to do once someone does actually fancy you)
and
The Final Report on the Durability of Precast Segmental Bridges (more than likely a straightforward guide to keeping a man fancying you).

But essentially what I’ve discovered is that everyone else has managed to get way past page 31. It’s just me.

I’m thinking now that if instead of having writer’s block I had some other condition like writer’s bloke then I wouldn’t be spending Saturday evening not writing pages 31-36 but could be having an interesting conversation, sex, or bickering.

So please, would someone email me either pages 31-36 or a writer’s bloke.

Oh, the script is called ‘The Tomatoes of Forgetfulness’. This probably explains the problem.

How Not to Impress – Or Compost is Sexy

It came to pass that I was showing someone that didn’t know me very well around my garden. Someone I quite wanted to know better. Sometimes I should know better.

This is what my garden usually looks like:
A pastoral idyll
A woodland glade
Sissinghurst
A garden

You know how it’s easy to take for granted what you see every day. Until you find yourself seeing it through someone else’s eyes.

It turned out that this is what my garden consisted of:

Paths with broken dragons who wanted to be real dragons when they grew up but remained stolidly concrete.
A compost heap.
An unmown lawn that had turned into a purple meadow.
Another compost heap.
An artefact made of breezeblocks and red render that wanted to be a bench in the Gaudi style but never quite achieved its ambition.
Dandelions.
A garden structure made of old ladders and guttering that wanted to be a Zen Japanese Tea House but had long since passed its ambition.
Another compost heap.
A greenhouse housing not greens but a thousand demi-johns with gross mysterious algae floating about in them in the post-post-modern grunge style.
Another compost heap.
More compost heaps in the art nouveau/vieux style.
A tin bath filled with mouldy water and old leaves in the Emin style.
Another compost heap.
Erosion.
Corrosion.
Exposition.
A compost heap.

I’ve just consulted Wikihow as to how to make a good impression on a man. Strangely there was no mention whatsoever of dandelions, compost heaps or mould.

I’ve also just consulted Google as to how to tell if a man fancies you. There was an awful lot of mention of me. And no mention of compost.

Since many people set such store on internet expertise I thinking that a bit of reverse experteeism could work here:

The most attractive thing a woman can have is a great number of compost heaps.

Sexiness and the ability to compost are practically synonymous.

What Not to Do on Your First Date

I’ve been dating. This is a hugely confusing experience. The truth is that I’ve never dated before. It, along with many other experiences, like South America, the 1950s and enormous willies, is something I’ve only ever see on television, read about in the doctor’s waiting room or fantasised about.

I need to say here re the fantasy thing that I am very worried about men, the male population and people with willies. I saw a program on BBC3 about penises. Apparently 78.235% of men think their willie is too small. And I just need to say STOP IT your willie is fine. And be happy – 70% of women don’t even have G-spots, and of those that had them, many have been stolen by people from the future. We don’t fantasise about big willies, we read Mills and Boon (and possibly the Karma Sutra) (pop up edition) (yes this exists) (willie size is not mentioned).

I’ve been dating. This is a hugely confusing experience. Obviously this lack of dating thing has very little to do with a lack of partners thing. It just seems that my previous methods of attracting the male of the species, cunning ventures like simply hanging out with them and/or propositioning them on MSN, has taught me nothing about dating complete strangers.

This is what I’ve learnt so far in terms of essential dating do’s and don’ts:

Don’t propose marriage on the first date.
Do wear clothes.
Don’t tell them about your blog that talks about G-spots and penis size.
Do arrive at the correct place.
Don’t tell them your G-spot was stolen by a person from the future.
Do arrive on the right day.
Don’t tell them you are interested in sex.
Do arrive.
Don’t tell them you are not interested in sex.
Do pretend you are interesting.
Don’t tell them you need to sleep with them NOW.
Do keep your big fat mouth shut.
Don’t wear the big, long, white dress with excess skirts.
Look demure (they may believe you).

Should you have failed in many of the above then there is one simple solution. Call your date. Apologise profusely for how someone cunningly impersonating you (your evil twin sister probably) kidnapped you, chloroformed you, hid you in the boot of your car and turned up on the date. This totally explains how they got the wrong time, place and totally misunderstood the clothing conventions. As well as the whole sex thing.

Ask, beg, plead, cajole and if necessary (which it will be) bribe them to dismiss the whole sorry episode from their mind and meet you again. That you will be a completely new person (not your evil twin sister). And normal.

Please?

Who Not to Marry

I have fallen out with Mr Delchem. His Flapper Flush Valve (with Lever) has caused a great deal of strife and could lead to the immanent collapse of civilisation as we know it. Not a great loss I know, but some might miss it.

It was the ‘with Lever’ bit that started the whole sorry mess.

This is what happened:

Having satisfied myself that the cistern had stopped leaking from the many orifices that cisterns enjoy leaking from I decided to replace the 22 pieces of tongue and groove panelling attached by 66 screws. This is where I discovered that Mr Delchem was not quite what he seemed. The Lever he was so very proud of had no capacity to lengthen. Not an unknown problem for men like Mr Delchem. But, (and perhaps this is a testament to my general attractiveness) a problem that I had never come across before.

I could not, therefore, replace the 22 pieces of tongue and groove panelling attached by 66 screws without impairing the effectiveness of Mr Delchem’s Lever. I’m sure you will agree that this was a serious problem. But not as serious as what came next:

I decided there was nothing for it but to cut a hole in the 22 pieces of tongue and groove panelling attached by 66 screws to allow the free movement or Mr Delchem’s Lever.

For this I needed my hacksaw.
For this I needed the light that illuminated the small room in which I keep all my tools for just this sort of serious situation.
The lightbulb broke.
The light fitting turned out to be a crumbling mess probably first installed in the latter part of the fifteenth century.
I set forth to my favoured DIY emporium for the appropriate replacement.
I broke down.
And caused a traffic jam.

Normally, a small traffic jam on the A470 leading into Cardiff is but a twinge in the otherwise cheerful side of civilisation.

Not today. Today all of the world was on its way into Cardiff to watch our gallant boys with the large thighs and moth-eaten ears beat the world in that thing they do with the ball they never quite managed to work out how to make into a sphere.

Civilisation, essentially, was caused a nasty case of acute appendicitis. I blame Mr Delchem. And his Lever.

He has yet to respond to my proposal of marriage and perhaps it is all for the best.

How Not to Find a G-Spot

Disturbing news. I just read in the New Scientist (verily the source of all my knowledge) that They have just found something out.

The New Scientist is full of Theys. Who are busy finding Things out. It is possible to prove almost anything with sufficient perusals of this fine periodical.

Disturbing news. I just read in the New Scientist that only 30% of women have a G-spot. But that’s not all. It transpires that only a small proportion of men can find a G-spot. And sometimes, even if they find it, they don’t know what to do with it.

This, in my experience, is a common problem with the male of the species. There are other items which they find difficult to find. And then even should they happen across them they are flummoxed.

Items such as:

Hoovers
Dusters
Nappies
Children
Money
Fidelity
And, of course, clitorii.
And now we find out – G-spots.

Don’t think I’m just accusing the men of this kind of thing. No, us women also lose stuff. Just different stuff.

Items such as:

Hair bobbles
Earrings
Hearts
Sanity
And, of course common sense.
And now we find out – G-spots.


Not to worry though. The Theys of the New Scientist have a solution. They propose (oh, that’s another one, proposals) that men be trained in the art of discovery. I can just see them going for that:

Scientist: We believe it’s just up a bit and to the left.
Man: I don’t know what’s the point.
Scientist: To give her pleasure.
Man: I don’t know what’s the point.


Disturbing news. If only 30% of women have a G-spot and only 5% of men can find it and then only 1% of men know what to do with it when they find it, then any given woman who actually has a G-spot is unlikely to meet and then sleep with that man.

I once slept with that man. And believe I know why only 30% of women have a G-Spot. He steals them. No one ever found mine again. He’s probably got hundreds.

You know who you are. Please return the stolen goods immediately.

How Not to Meet Mr Right on Valentines Day

It was Valentines Day today. It still is. But luckily there’s only 35 minutes left.

This is what happened:

I received something red in the post.

Some twelve hours later I discarded it as I really do have loads of those elastic bands that the postman uses already. We have a ball of them even. Called Cyril. The ball. Not the postman. Although the postman might be called Cyril. I’ll ask him tomorrow.

So, today was Valentines day. It still is. But luckily there’s only 33 minutes left. A day for finding love.

This is what happened:

After a lengthy discussion with my mother as to where all the handsome rich men with cute children hang out I decided to go to the gym. Because it was a good a place as anywhere to start on my search for Mr Right.

And obviously any sexy blokes, or even just ok blokes, or even just blokes with all their tackle intact, who were in the gym on Valentines night were bound to be single. Or in serious trouble. Thus my arrival on Valentines night (as opposed to my arrival on every other night this week) would cunningly lead to my knowing exactly which of those sweating regulars were, or were not, single. Cunning eh?

I went to great lengths to look good, wearing my new M&S gym trousers – ‘cotton fresh’. ‘Feel me’ the label said. I left it on. As well as the label ‘£12.99 fantastic value’ in case any of the men I was about to meet happened to have £12.99. I washed, brushed, put on several bras (needing all the support I could get) (especially whilst running) (which I might have to do) (if I met Mr Right and he tried to run away).

With a jaunty step and a J-Lo like wiggle to my bottom I stepped into the gym. And glanced around. And peered around some corners. And under some running machines.

There were no men.

There were lots of women.

Like me. Except without the labels.

None of the men whose physique I’ve been admiring all these weeks are single.

This is disappointing.

It was Valentines Day today. It still is. But luckily there’s only 25 minutes left.