Why is it OK to be racist towards the English?

Hello all

I haven't blogged for a while, I hope you've all been behaving yourselves whilst I've been away, but I'm rather irritated tonight a feel I need to vent my spleen. The reason is thus-

Up until a few hours ago, England were the No1 ranked side in cricket. We were comprehensively beaten by a superior South African side and now they are No1. This is not the reason I am annoyed. The reason I am irritated is the shameless way Twitter and various public forums have lit up, bad mouthing the English in quite insulting ways saying how we didn't deserve being No1 anyway, how does feel to loose? and basically falling back on bad spelling and grammar to insult the English nation and everything in it.
To set the record straight, we did deserve to be No1 as we beat India last year who were then No1, thus taking their place at the top of the tree. Thats why South Africa are No1 now, because they beat us. This is how the system works. You don't get to be No1 in anything without hard work. It's not a quota system based on who hasn't been No1 for a while, you beat the best to become the best. Secondly, it feels fine not to be No1 anymore. It's not the end of the world, my life isn't in ruins because we're not the best team in the world and I'm not going to stop watching cricket because of it. Ultimately, it's a game. A game which the vast majority of people don't understand and in the grand scheme of world importantness is pretty much irrelevant. Also being English it feels somewhat strange being the best in the world at something. We're not really used to being a nation of winners despite the best efforts of our Olympic team.

But what I'm driving at here is the fact that whenever the English lose at something, Cricket, Rugby, Tennis, Football, whatever, everywhere suddenly becomes vitriolic in their hatred for the English and yet no one complains. I'm not talking about banter. A gentle dig and some winding up of the opposition is vital in any sport so long as it doesn't get out of hand. What I'm talking about is derogatory, offensive language or just mindless stupidity aimed at a nation of people simply because they lost a sporting event. Can you imagine the uproar if a white person used offensive language to a black South African or an Indian or Pakistani? They'd be labelled a troll, ridiculed and possibly have criminal charges brought against them or, at the very least, their Twitter account closed down. I can't see any of this happening tonight despite the amount of abuse flying around Twitter
It's not just cricket, I noticed the same sort of abuse flying around during the 6 Nations and the Rugby world cup. It's not just sport, I've noticed anti English sentiments seeping into most things. The difference is, we're one of the few Nations who don't do anything about it. But why? Why are we still hated? Yes I know we once had an Empire and treated some indigenous people horrendously but you know what? So did a lot of other countries with Empires and they were far worse than we were. The treatment of the native people of the Congo by the occupying Belgium's was mind numbingly savage but woe betide anyone who has a bad word to say about the people of Belgium. Lets not forget the treatment of Jews and other minorities by the Nazis but don't bad mouth the Germans because that makes me a backward looking xenophobe who harks back to the war and is obsessed with 1966. The Africans were selling each other as slaves for centuries before the Arabs and Europeans got in on the act lets not forget, it was the British who banned the slave trade. There was still segregation in the U.S up until the 1960's, apartheid wasn't abolished in South Africa until the 1990's and yet the English are still seen as the bitter ex colonialists who it's OK to have a pop at.

I don't know what the answer is. Maybe it's just me but I wouldn't insult someone just because of where they come from. Don't get me wrong, I'm not going to start a petition just because the French refer to us as "Le Rosbefs" or if someone laughs at me because I'm so terribly English. Stereotypes do exist for a reason, but I refuse to take racist abuse from people just because I'm a white Englishman. To clarify, I've never suffered racial abuse personally and no I wouldn't know what it's like to have bananas stuffed through my letterbox or to be chased down the road by a bunch of BNP/EDL fuckwits, but that doesn't stop me from being upset when I see my nationality being insulted.

I'm not having a go at any one group of people, although it's telling that non of the abuse being thrown around tonight on Twitter is from South Africans (non that I've seen anyway). I would just like the English to stop being the worlds punch bag. Call me a "wingeing pom" if you like (I am one after all), but don't insult me just because I'm white and English. We have feelings to you know

Full time Dad, GSOH, requires sleep, coffee and occasional feeding. Apply within

Just read over my last blog which I posted 3 days before Charlie Brown eventually arrived and I can't believe how long ago that seems! My beautiful Son, Charles Edward Bayliss, was born after a 26 hour labour, on Wednesday February 23rd at 18.40pm weighing a whopping 8lb 6oz. 3 1/2 weeks later, he's an even more whopping 9lb 13 1/2oz and seems to be growing day by day! Considering 3 days ago he was 9lb 6oz, that gives some clue what a hungry little monster he actually is. Poor old Shell is working overtime feeding him and he still wants more. That's what happens when you're born with the Bayliss appetite! I won't bore you with details of the birth, mainly because it was Shell who suffered it all and I'm not going to invade her privacy, but it was the longest, most stressful 36 hours of my life. Add another 1000% on to that and I suspect you've got something close to what Shell was feeling. Still, after a 3 day stay in hospital, they both finally came home to England beating France in the 6 Nations and a massive fry up which although might not have been the healthiest option in the world, was far better than anything the NHS could provide for us
I never kidded myself about how hard it was going to be, but no one quite explains just how much hard work and effort it actually is. If we hadn't got 3 months off together and one of us had to go back to work after 2 weeks, it would have been a nightmare! My hat is doffed to all those single and working parents out there. Sometimes, like now, Charlie is fast asleep and the whole world seems to be made out of chocolate loveliness and you feel like bursting out into song at every available opportunity. Other times, usually between 1am-5am, he's feeding every hour, screaming because he's got colic and trapped wind and you feel like you're on the set of the Exorcist! Plans are made and have to be changed as we now know that even if we've made a plan, Charlie hasn't read it and will do his own thing anyway, you're constantly wondering whether you're doing anything wrong and then just as he seems to be settling into a routine and lulling us into a false sense of security, Charlie decides he's bored with it and will do something different. Bless him! Would I change him for anything? Of course not. Despite the sleepless nights, the screaming, the fact that all my clothes smell of baby sick, he's my Son. My wonderful, gorgeous, precious son. And despite the fact that he's slept through the 6 Nations, most of the Cricket World Cup and the Living Daylights, I don't begrudge him any of it. In fact, if I could spend my entire life, sleeping, eating and playing on a baby gym, I'd be there like a shot!

Diary of a house husband

Well, this is it. I'm finally a house husband. My last shift at Shakespeare's Birthplace went by in a haze of annoying Chinese tourists and questions about whether the Globe Theatre was ever in Stratford and I'm now at my final destination- Child rearer, nappy changer and sick cleaner upper. (Anyone inserting the joke about how I'll have to do that with the baby as well will be taken away and shot by the comedy police. ITV I believe they're called) Of course I won't be on my own doing this. My wonderful wife and mother of my as yet unborn child will be helping out in her capacity as the one whose far more sensible than I am (Anyone who has seen my wife laughing at Penguins and singing in a broad Brummy accent to The Lion Sleeps Tonight, will realise the implications of bringing up a child where she's the sensible one)
The problem I'm having at the moment is I'm at a bit of a loose end. Charlie Brown still hasn't arrived and isn't due for another 5 days (God, it seems so close when I put it like that!) But until the momentous day arrives, what's a boy to do? I suspect the answer is, enjoy every precious moment of unadulterated guilt free time you have as you won't be getting any time like that for a long time to come!
So far today I've had a long lie in, 10am, which has long since become a thing of the past even on a Sunday as my body prepares me for early starts and sleepless nights, had a long slow breakfast of coffee and bacon and eggs, read the Sunday papers, fed the birds, prepared some flower beds and generally floated round in a state of airy anticipation of the day when I won't get a chance to do any of those things. This is obviously how my wife has felt for the last 3 weeks as she's wound down from work; we've got so much time on our hands we just don't know what to do with it. Doing nothing is very hard for my wife to do as anyone who knows her will testify. I always thought I was quite good at it but maybe it's the fact I've had almost 2 years of solid employment, an unheard off pleasure in the acting world, that I've lost the ability of not being able to relax and do nothing. If not lost it, then certainly it's under used and rusty from lack of use. There's an oxymoron for you! Still, I know we're doing the right thing, and it'll be a nice thing to get to know my wife again whilst it's just the two of us. And every day Charlie Brown stays wrapped up in his or her cocoon of warmth and security, the closer we get to Uncle Richard getting back from honeymoon and meeting, not to mention spoiling, his first niece and nephew and me winning the sweepstake of guessing the correct date of birth. Come on March 2nd! Or was it the 3rd? Either way, knowing the mischievous streak it's already showing, it's probably going to make an appearance during the potential 6 Nations decider of England V France on Saturday despite strict instructions to the contrary! Still, Chris Ashton Bayliss has a certain ring to it.

And so the waiting continues, the papers and complete works of Sherlock Holmes will be read in due course and I can gaze round the clean and tidy house knowing full well that very soon, it's going to be a dumping ground for nappies, strange squeaky toys and soiled baby grows. I can't wait.......

It's Chrrrrriiiiiiiiiiiisssssssstmaaaaaaaaasssssssss! (Well, almost)

Greetings once again

Haven't done a blog for a while. I won't update my sitcom on this one (please read previous posts and let me know what you think) but I will just sit here and see what comes out. Insert own joke here!

I'm actually feeling pretty festive at the moment. For those of you who have known me for some time this will probably come as a bit of a shock as I've always been a bit of a humbugger (is that a word? Should I be calling myself something with the word, bugger, in the title?) but times change and this is a christmas of firsts and lasts. It's the first in our new, wonderful house which, despite being desperatly cold thanks to the high ceilings, we wouldn't change for the world. Shells especially excited as it's always been a wish of hers to have a huge christmas tree in the bay window and this her, her wish has come true! All 8ft of it! It looks great, despite the fun and games we had trying to get it up and the frightful strop that yours truly threw when it stay in place! It's also the last christmas that we'll be spending together as a couple as this time next year, fingers crossed, touch wood etc, we'll have a new edition to the family! This is the last time we'll have time just for each other as from now on, it'll all revolve around him or her. He/she has been spoilt rotten already and it's only going to get worse as they grow up so we're making the most of the peace and quiet while we can. I for one can't wait!

_________________________________________________________

So this is christmas, and what have you done?
Watched the Two Ronnies and insulted you Mom
The turkey is burning, the sprouts are hard boiled
The crackers are useless and the puddings been spoiled

A very crappy christmas and a rotten new year
It can only get better so pass me the beer

So this is christmas, over rated and dull
Nothing on telly and the wine is all mulled
The familes are rowing, a fist is being thrown
The season of goodwill and crap paper crowns

A very crappy christmas, A+E's here
Stuff all your good will, until this time next year

Merry Christmas everybody!

Hope you get what you all want xx

Idiot boy and the Paranoid Persona- Chapter 3

Rob made his way back home. He smelt of bleach and stale toilets but at the Charity Muggers on the high street didn't hassle him so there's an upside to every situation. He reached the Victorian terrace which housed his flat, there was something familiar about the rubbish and debris scattered on the lawn, made his way through the main front door and fumbled for his keys as he got to his flat.
The key didn't fit. Another thing for his absent landlord to fix. Rob tried the key again but it just wouldn't budge. It was almost as if it was the wrong key. He pulled the key out of the lock with great effort and saw the note on his front door. He opened it and scanned the contents.

NOTICE OF EVICTION

This couldn't be right! The door to the opposite flat opened and a ragged, old man wearing only a pair of hideously stained underpants stoop in the aperture

"Have you got one of these as well Albert?" asked Rob

"Nope, just you" replied Albert matter of factly. Rob looked down at the eviction notice in the hope that the answer to his problems might be revealed to him. It wasn't

"What have I done to deserve this?"

"I heard something about non payment of rent" said Albert

Rob was indignant, "I paid last months!"

"I think it was the 5 months previous that he had issue with"

Albert really wasn't helping the situation. Rob needed to gather his thoughts. He couldn't do that with Homer Simpson's fatter brother standing over him in his underwear. Suddenly the clarity of the situation hit him

"My stuff! It's still in the flat. My whole life was in there". Rob really had rock bottom. Suddenly, Albert threw him an unexpected lifeline

"They took your stuff out, said they were going to store it somewhere"

Rob brightened slightly. "Where did they put it?". Albert fumbled in his underpants and handed Rob the scrawled note with the directions of the storage facilities on it. Rob smiled politely and started following the instructions. 

Ten seconds later, Rob found himself on the front lawn surrounded by the remnants of his stuff. It wasn't the biggest front garden the world but there still seemed to be a lot of space left. Surely he owned more than this? He did a quick stock check. One skateboard? Check. One mannequin dressed as Noddy Holder? Check. 3 boxes of CD's? Check. Was he was wearing all the clothes he owned? Check. All present and correct. Oh well, at least there wouldn't be much to carry. The window which overlooked the lawn slid open and Albert poked his head out

"I used some of spare pants to blow my nose. Do want them back?"

"Keep em mate" replied Rob. "My treat"

Rob piled the CD's and Noddy Holder onto his skateboard and started walking. Where was he going to live now? He pulled his phone out and started to scour his contacts list. Simon! Of course, his old mate Simon would put him up. He pressed the dial button and waited for the voice of his saviour

"Simon! It's Rob Saunders here, we met at that Village People Tribute act concert in 1999? Yeah, long time no speaky. Listen I've just been evicted from my flat and I remember you saying that if I ever needed a place to stay, I could crash at yours so I'm on my over if that's OK"

Good old faithful Simon, he wouldn't let Rob down. He did. Rob took in the news as it filtered through
 his brain. "When did you move?" asked Rob slightly plaintively "Oh right, well I'm sure I could still get there if.........". Rob listened to the dismembered voice again. "A child? Great. How old is he? 8? Well that's great. I don't mind sharing with him if....." The dial tone penetrated though his head like a drill of rejection. What was Simon's problem? People shouldn't make these offers if they have no intention of honouring them. Rob scrolled through his contacts list again. John! Of course, Johnny boy will put him up! Rob pressed the dial button

"John, it's Rob here...................Hello? Hello?"................

The car came out of nowhere. It hurtled round the corner to be confronted by an idiot talking on his phone pulling what looked like Noddy Holder on a skateboard. The driver slammed the brakes on and gave his horn a blast at the same time. The idiot just stared at him and gave a 'what's your problem?' look then went into the pub he was heading to. God Bill hated stupid people! Why didn't people pay more attention? Bloody idiots. Bill put his car into gear and was just about to start off again when he froze. A black cat had wandered onto the road and was now sitting right in front of his car, staring at Bill. Bill stared back. All that needed to happen was for a tumble weed to roll past and for there to be a blast of Ennio Morricone and the scene would have been complete. Bill started to rack his brain. Was a black cat lucky or unlucky? As he was pondering this, a single magpie landed on the bonnet of his car. That was definitely bad news! Bill sat in his car, crippled by superstition and worry while the crescendo of car horns built up behind him. He had to do something, he couldn't spend the rest of his life in his car. He had a business to run. Come on man, pull yourself together. There just two animals, no harm will come to you. Bill kept repeating that mantra but still nothing happened. The invisible force still clamped him to the car seat as the drivers behind him got more and more irate. Bill revved the engine all the way into the red zone. The engine screamed it's protest but the cat and the magpie just carried on sitting there looking at Bill with disdain. That's it, he'd had enough. He was going to get out of the car and shoo them off! Nothing bad was going to happen, it was all just superstitious nonsense! Bill threw the door open and saw it get ripped clean off it's hinges by the lorry sped past, fed up with waiting. Bill sat there for a moment. At least lightening won't strike twice, he thought. He got out the car and was thrown back over the bonnet as he narrowly avoided getting hit by another car. Bill stumbled backwards onto the pavement, managed to avoid all the cracks, slipped on a banana skin, went under a ladder and backwards into the outside display of "Clives Hall of Mirrors", smashing every single one as he did so. Bill was definitely going to pay for that! Bill took a sachet of salt out of his top pocket, put some in his hand and hurled it over his left shoulder. The grains landed in the eyes of the window cleaner whose ladder Bill had stumbled under. The window cleaner staggered blindly into the road where there was a screech of brakes and a sickening thud. Bill counted his blessings and tried to sidle off unoticed

Flattened episode 1. Idiot boy and the Paranoid Persona

Hello everyone again. Here's chapter two of my sitcom Flattened. For those of you who may have missed it, I've attached chapter one as well. 

Hope you enjoy

Chapter one

Rob Saunders looked at himself in the wide mirror and wondered how he got here. How does a man born into a normal working class family in Birmingham find himself in the dressing room at Wembley Arena, about to perform in front of 50,000 adoring fans? It's ridiculous, it's absured, some would say it was unfair and yet, here he was. He was playing out everybodys childhood fantasy. He was a rockstar, he had the entourage, the girls, the drugs, the drink, everything. His album had the highest amount of downloads ever, he was on the front cover of every single magazine in the country, he was on the verge of cracking America and in a few moments time he would be able to utter those immortal words, "Good evening Wembley!"

There was a short knock on the dressing room door and the slim, attractive PA, who still managed to look sexy wearing knockabout clothes and huge headphones round her slim attractive neck simply said, "5 minutes Rob"

Rob didn't look around, he just stared at his face in the mirror. He was searching for something in those eyes. An answer perhaps? An answer to how he made it here but then did he want an answer? Wasn't it better to just accept what life, fate, God, whoever had given you and not ask any questions? Ask no questions, tell no lies. His mind raced, his heart thumped, the pulse in his temple throbbed so hard he thought it would burst out the side of his head and run out the fire escape and through the backstreets of London. This was no time for philosophical questions and soul searching, this was a time for doing what he did best, being a rock god! He pushed back his chair, checked his hair one last time, took a large swig of Jack Daniels straight out the bottle and walked out the dressing room to take hold of his destiny.

As soon as Rob stepped out the door, the 3 huge black security guards flanked him on all sides to shield him from the hangers on the paparazzi. Rob barely the noticed the hustle anymore. When he first encountered it, he had found it terrifying and more than a little bizarre. Why would so many people be interested in him? He wasn't anybody special. Now he was used to it and didn't even hear the questions being fired at him, the screams and pleadings from the nubile young girls who seemed to constantly follow him around. Nor did the constant flash of cameras trouble him. He was in the zone, all he could hear was his own heartbeat and the distant sound of 50,000 people chanting his name.

Rob reached the the edge of the stage. His band were already there, nervously jiggling their legs or just staring into middle distance. There was no need for group hugs, communal prayers, words of encouragement or any of the other crap that seems endemic when you're about to go on stage. They knew they were good, they knew they were tight. Nothing needed to be said.

The lights were beaming down on the stage, catching the dancing dust as they cut there way through the fug of sweat and stale alcohol. Some people had already started throwing the plastic glasses half full of cheap lager around the venue. The moshers down the front were hanging over the metal railings, straining every sinew to get as close to the stage and their idol as possible. Rob's heart started beating even harder. He could taste the aluminum of fear burning at the back of his throat when the lights dimmed. The crowd erupted, then band stepped onto the stage. Mick, the languidly cool guitarist, gently squeezed the back of Robs head in a single gesture that summed up everything and took his place at the front of stage. He strapped on his black and white Rickenbacker and struck the opening chord of "Kick in the teeth". Rob took a deep breath, closed his eyes and stepped out into the wall of screams.

When Rob opened his eyes, the view was somewhat different. Wembley Arena had somehow transformed itself into a public toilet, and his adoring public had shrunk to a toilet attendant and dodgy looking man with a wispy beard and a dirty shell suit. Also neither of them looked particularly adoring. In fact the attendant was growing increasingly hostile. His mouth was moving but nothing was coming out of it. The occasional bit of angry spittle landed on Rob's face as the tirade seemed to grow in intensity. Why couldn't Rob hear him? The music! Of course, the music was drowning out this scary looking man with the wild eyes and nicotine stained fingers. Rob turned round to tell the band to stop playing for a moment, but the band weren't there. Where was the music coming from? His ipod! Of course. Rob pulled the headphones out of his ears.

".........You stupid wanker!". Rob looked confused. The attendant just stared at Rob as if waiting for an answer.

"Pardon?" asked Rob?

"I said what the bloody hell are you doing in here singing that shit into the mirror you stupid wanker?"

Rob just stared at the attendant. "Background music" replied Rob matter of factly

 

Chapter 2

 

Bill Turnbull made a lightening quick assessment of the situation and decided that it was now or never. If there was one thing he'd learnt from watching 24 and Spooks it was, if you stand still, you're a dead man. He dashed across the empty road. If anyone had been watching all they would have seen was a flash of khaki, they couldn't have proved who it was except maybe guess that he was a member of the special forces. Bill got to the building on the opposite side of the road and flattened himself against the wall just a black BMW came round the corner. This could be serious he thought. Undercover police often drive around in black Beamers and he was convinced that they were onto him. He pushed himself further into the wall hoping somehow that he might actually come part of the wall and waited for the car to pass. The BMW sped past, it's tinted windows seeming to sneer at the world and the deep bass of the hardcore garage music sticking one finger up at the world whilst rattling the windows of respectable society. Bill remained in the position for a moment longer, then relaxed when he heard the bass fade away. Even the police drew the line at pimping their cars to that extent. He was safe for the time being. However the biggest challenge was still to come. He still had to gain access to the building and not arouse suspicion. What would James Bond do in this situation? Make a witty comment then sleep with the nearest beautiful woman probably. Bill mulled it over for a moment but quickly decided that it probably wasn't the best course of action for this particular situation. Luckily, he'd come prepared. He put his rucksack down beside him and extracted the change of clothes he'd brought with him. Hiding in plain sight, blending in with your surroundings. That was the way forward. He pulled out the sensible chinos, the jumper with the collar and cuffs already attached and started to remove his camouflage fatigues.

Bill strode confidently into the designated room of the building in his new disguise with some books tucked under his arm. His luck was in, not only was it deathly quiet but the woman behind the desk was the lugubrious teenager who wouldn't have noticed you if you'd have been stark naked and came in with Elvis Presley and the Queen Mother in a shopping trolley. He slid the books over the desk to her and walked quickly past and through the barriers. She hadn't bothered looking up, she was too busy reading the autobiography of some WAG to even notice the outside world. Thank god for minor celebrities and their books, thought Bill. It makes my life so much easier sometimes.

He went over to the row of computers and flicked the mouse of the first one he came to. The screen woke up and asked him to type in his password. He moved to the next one and did the same thing. Same response from the computer. He tried each one in turn but it was no good. None of them had been used recently so he was going to have to go and buy some credits which could compromise his identity. He'd ridden his luck so far and got away with it, so he wasn't entirely surprised and there could have been worse places for his luck to run out. He'd have to take a chance with the ghoulish teenager and her literature of doom

When Bill got to the desk, the books he'd slid across on his way in were still at the same slightly skew if angle they'd ended up in and the teenager still seemed to be be in exactly the same position as before. Even more comatose than usual, thought Bill. This is good. Bill coughed lightly to inform the teenager of his presence. She didn't move. Bill coughed again, a little louder this time. Still nothing. Maybe the teenager wasn't real. Maybe she was made of wax and set up here in an attempt to disguise the buildings woeful under staffing. Maybe she'd been drugged by the secret service and this was a trap designed to capture Bill in the act? Time was ticking. Bill would have to go for the direct approach

 

"Excuse me, could I have the password for the computer please?"

The most remarkable thing then happened. Without taking her eyes off the page and with extraordinary economy of movement, her hand swooped down under the desk and brought out the slip of paper with today's password on it then held it out for Bill to take. Bill had to admire the graceful movement of her action. If she'd have pulled out a gun instead of a harmless piece of paper, he'd have been killed instantly, so mesmerised was he by this balletic performance of sheer lethargy. Bill took the piece of paper and went back to the computer. He didn't even have to give his name to her. The gods were on his side today alright.

He sat down at the computer, opened one of his many email accounts he had under different names and composed what was on his mind

To the editor of Weird Weekly Wonderings, RE Poisonous monkeys. 

Dear sir, in the article last week entitled “Poisonous Monkeys are amongst us” you neglected to tell us how said monkeys became poisonous in the first place and what symptoms we should look out for if we are bitten by one! What with the threat of international terrorism and cancerous sausages looming over us like a circling vulture waiting to pick the bones of humanity, I find it very irresponsible that you should print a story of this magnitude and not tell what poisonous substances these monkeys were subject to in the first place and how we should also avoid the potential threat ourselves. 

Please rectify this in future issues, as I’d hate for an article like this to stir up hysteria unnecessarily. 

Yours, Bill Turnbull

Bill sent the email, deleted the browser history and shut the computer down. Mission accomplished and he hadn't been rumbled!

Bill walked out past the teenager who still hadn't moved, stopped briefly to pick up two leaflets entitled "Should I be afraid of Magpies?" and "Cholesterol- Delicious but Deadly" and went back outside. Today was going to be a good day! 

Travelling through the breeze of my head

Hello once again. Not only did people read my last blog, some of you actually enjoyed it as well! Thanks for the feedback, I hope you enjoy this one as well

First up in answer to my last blogs question as to whether of not I'll have a job at the end of the month- The answer is YES! I've finally been told after being given the same information twice in 2 different meetings, but I'm going to be working as a guide in Shakespeare's House until the end of Feb which ties in nicely with Charlie Brown being born. Anyone wants to pay me a visit, please feel free.

Now down to business. As some of you may know I've written a sitcom called "Flattened" which I'm hoping one day to get commissioned. After a bright start when it won an ITV competition, it's gone through several rewrites and has fallen somewhat by the wayside. My latest plan to resurrect this sitcom phoenix from the flames of inertia is to serialise it through this blog in the style of a book. It's a working progress, as with so many things I haven't really thought too hard about it but I'm hoping that this will help me develop character background, insert new ideas and jokes and help me see the project from a different point of view. I'd be exceedingly grateful (I sound like Mr Kipling) for any feedback you might have. What works, what doesn't, what you would like to see more off etc. I'd find it very helpful and it might also help with publicising my work which can only be a good thing. If you know anyone who you think could help me, I'd be eternally grateful.

So without further ado, lets begin at the beginning-

Chapter one

Rob Saunders looked at himself in the wide mirror and wondered how he got here. How does a man born into a normal working class family in Birmingham find himself in the dressing room at Wembley Arena, about to perform in front of 50,000 adoring fans? It's ridiculous, it's absured, some would say it was unfair and yet, here he was. He was playing out everybodys childhood fantasy. He was a rockstar, he had the entourage, the girls, the drugs, the drink, everything. His album had the highest amount of downloads ever, he was on the front cover of every single magazine in the country, he was on the verge of cracking America and in a few moments time he would be able to utter those immortal words, "Good evening Wembley!"

There was a short knock on the dressing room door and the slim, attractive PA, who still managed to look sexy wearing knockabout clothes and huge headphones round her slim attractive neck simply said, "5 minutes Rob"

Rob didn't look around, he just stared at his face in the mirror. He was searching for something in those eyes. An answer perhaps? An answer to how he made it here but then did he want an answer? Wasn't it better to just accept what life, fate, God, whoever had given you and not ask any questions? Ask no questions, tell no lies. His mind raced, his heart thumped, the pulse in his temple throbbed so hard he thought it would burst out the side of his head and run out the fire escape and through the backstreets of London. This was no time for philosopical questions and soul searching, this was a time for doing what he did best, being a rock god! He pushed back his chair, checked his hair one last time, took a large swig of Jack Daniels straight out the bottle and walked out the dressing room to take hold of his destiny.

As soon as Rob stepped out the door, the 3 huge black security guards flanked him on all sides to shield him from the hangers on the paparatzi. Rob barely the noticed the hussle anymore. When he first encountered it, he had found it terrifing and more than a little bizarre. Why would so many people be interested in him? He wasn't anybody special. Now he was used to it and didn't even hear the questions being fired at him, the screams and pleadings from the nubile young girls who seemed to constantly follow him around. Nor did the constant flash of cameras trouble him. He was in the zone, all he could hear was his own heartbeat and the distant sound of 50,000 people chanting his name.

Rob reached the the edge of the stage. His band were already there, nervously jiggling their legs or just staring into middle distance. There was no need for group hugs, communal prayers, words of encouragement or any of the other crap that seems endemic when you're about to go on stage. They knew they were good, they knew they were tight. Nothing needed to be said.

The lights were beaming down on the stage, catching the dancing dust as they cut there way through the fug of sweat and stale alcohol. Some people had already started throwing the plastic glasses half full of cheap lager around the venue. The moshers down the front were hanging over the metal railings, straining every sinew to get as close to the stage and their idol as possible. Rob's heart started beating even harder. He could taste the aluminum of fear burning at the back of his throat when the lights dimmed. The crowd erupted, then band stepped onto the stage. Mick, the languidly cool guitarest, gently squeezed the back of Robs head in a single gesture that summed up everything and took his place at the front of stage. He strapped on his black and white rickenbaker and struck the opening chord of "Kick in the teeth". Rob took a deep breath, closed his eyes and stepped out into the wall of screams.

When Rob opened his eyes, the view was somewhat different. Wembley Arena had somehow transformed itself into a public toilet, and his adoring public had shrunk to a toilet attendent and dodgy looking man with a whispy beard and a dirty shell suit. Also neither of them looked particulaly adoring. In fact the attendent was growing increasingly hostile. His mouth was moving but nothing was coming out of it. The occasonal bit of angry spittle landed on Rob's face as the tirade seemed to grow in intencity. Why couldn't Rob hear him? The music! Of course, the music was drowning out this scary looking man with the wild eyes and nicotine stained fingers. Rob turned round to tell the band to stop playing for a moment, but the band weren't there. Where was the music coming from? His ipod! Of course. Rob pulled the headphones out of his ears.

".........You stupid wanker!". Rob looked confused. The attendent just stared at Rob as if waiting for an answer.

"Pardon?" asked Rob?

"I said what the bloody hell are you doing in here singing that shit into the mirror you stupid wanker?"

Rob just stared at the attendent. "Background music" replied Rob matter of factly

Rob was bundled out soon after that. He did start to play in defiance of the attendant outside the lavatory block but it came to a swift end when the contents of the attendents bucket were deposited over his head which made playing the guitar slightly difficult. Rob walked back home through the park being given a wide berth by everybody he encountered. Something told him it was going to be one of those days

Chaper two next time. TTFN