The following is an exclusive extract from the diaries of Basford Harper, the notorious 'Shropshire Ripper.' The full diaries are available from all good retailers from £0.10p.
15/7
Had lunch with J - grilled salmon was v.nice, cheesecake was fine, but raspberry coulis was a bit too tart. J complained that his bread and butter pudding was soggy. Fussy sod!
16/7
Killed J.
17/7
Went for a walk in the woods, saw a deer. How cute! Dumped two hooker torsos. Drank tea from my new Thermos.
20/7
Haven't written for a few days. Been v.busy with all the killings and that. Tiring stuff. I was asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow.
21/7
M phoned and asked if I wanted to go to a party at his house. Trouble is, I know H will be there, and I don't really want to see her, especially after our run-in last month. I don't want to let M down, but then I don't want to cause a scene, what am I to do?
22/7
Burned M's house down.
24/7
Went to a talk on Larkin with R. I argued that while Larkin's misogynistic tendencies are undoubtedly unpleasant, it is possible to appreciate his poetry by its own merits. R argued that such a humanistic reading was glib and blinkered. We debated for a while, and blah, blah, blah I've only just finished disposing of the body.
25/7
I'm beginning to worry that I will have killed my entire alphabet of acquaintances by the end of the year. Must slow down or I'll have have nothing to do over the party season.
05/1
Haven't written in a long time. The day after my last entry I was arrested for multiple murders. I knew I shouldn't have published this diary online.
Yesterday I was sentenced to ninety consecutive life-terms. Needless to say I was so perturbed I couldn't even manage my second helping of foie gras.
Sunday 31 August 2008
Thursday 28 August 2008
A taster of my latest project...
...an apocalyptic disaster movie in the vein of Armageddon, starring Freegan Morman as the President of the United States, Oback Barama. The scene I am about to exclusively preview is the emotional climax of the picture; the President has to inform the world's press that a meteor the size of a small dog, but the weight of Jersey is heading to Earth, where it will surely wipe out all life on the planet, or at the very least ruin a few barbecues and summer fetes.
While he has to remain calm, he is gripped by inner turmoil, because his maid has rejected his amorous advances and refused to smell his new chloroform collection.
Now, with the President behind the podium, the world waits with baited breath...
BARAMA: Ladies and gentlemen of the press, it is my regrettable duty as President of the United States, to inform you that we as a species are on the verge of extinction. Presently, a meteor is travelling towards Earth at a fantastic speed, and it will make impact.
VOICE FROM THE BACK: Speak up!
BARAMA: (LOUDER) There is a deadly meteor heading for the Earth!
VOICE FROM THE BACK: OK, that's better. Now do it again, but make it more convincing.
While he has to remain calm, he is gripped by inner turmoil, because his maid has rejected his amorous advances and refused to smell his new chloroform collection.
Now, with the President behind the podium, the world waits with baited breath...
BARAMA: Ladies and gentlemen of the press, it is my regrettable duty as President of the United States, to inform you that we as a species are on the verge of extinction. Presently, a meteor is travelling towards Earth at a fantastic speed, and it will make impact.
VOICE FROM THE BACK: Speak up!
BARAMA: (LOUDER) There is a deadly meteor heading for the Earth!
VOICE FROM THE BACK: OK, that's better. Now do it again, but make it more convincing.
Tuesday 26 August 2008
Buzzards Celebrity Blog Number 3: Vincent Van Gogh
He's the one that chopped his ear off isn't he? Eh? What a nutter.Monday 25 August 2008
The Cosmos and other inconveniences
Have you ever looked at the skies and felt small and insignificant? I know I have, but then I feel like that most of the time, anyway.
When you stand in a field or atop the shoulders of the one you love, and look up at that infinite void, you can't help but wonder if there are other beings out there, who share our affinity for star-gazing and hamburgers.
Seeking solace, I joined my local paranormal group expecting to find kindred spirits, but what I actually found were four elderly men, gathered around a small, grainy photo of a 'UFO', which upon closer inspection, turned out to be a lamp.
When you stand in a field or atop the shoulders of the one you love, and look up at that infinite void, you can't help but wonder if there are other beings out there, who share our affinity for star-gazing and hamburgers.
Seeking solace, I joined my local paranormal group expecting to find kindred spirits, but what I actually found were four elderly men, gathered around a small, grainy photo of a 'UFO', which upon closer inspection, turned out to be a lamp.
Sunday 24 August 2008
A world without humans...
...may be a cleaner, more idyllic planet, but where would one get a kebab after 9PM?
First Act...
...of a play I've been working on. It is tentatively titled, The Croissant of Enderby and already has Dave Benson-Phillips attached. Not to play a part in it you understand, I went downstairs one morning to find him affixed to the first draft.
ACT ONE
Two men sit on a sofa. One of the men, who bears more than a passing resemblance to my cousin, Quango, reads a newspaper. The other is heavily bearded and has the air of a man who showers every day but never towel-dries his hair. After a lengthy silence (10-15 mins) MAN 1 speaks.
MAN 1: I had a full English this morning.
MAN 2: Breakfast?
MAN 1: Yep. Full English. The full Monty.
MAN 2: Bet that was nice.
MAN 1: Was. Eggs. Fried. Sausage. Bacon. Beans. Toast. Fried Bread. Fried Tomatoes. Hash Browns. Cup of tea. Sausage. Bacon. Bacon. Bacon. Not the rind. I left that. Sausage... (While he continues naming breakfast ingredients, MAN 2 begins talking)
MAN 2: Betsy left today. And she took the children. I'm all alone now. Except for you. Just me and you...
MAN 1: Beans. Beans. Fried bread. Beans. Optional extra toast.
MAN 2: And that depresses me more than words can describe. I put my head in the oven today but the gas has been cut off, so all I got was a greasy nose. I'm going to drive my car off Beachy Head tonight. Of course, I'll have to find out where that is, but as soon as I do, I'm driving off it...
MAN 1: Black pudding. Did I mention bacon? Bacon. Sausage. There was a vegetarian option but I didn't have that. I'm not a gayer.
MAN 2: (Picks up phone and dials.) Yes, information. Could you tell me where Beachy Head is, please? Really? That's quite far, I don't think I can afford that much petrol. OK, thanks. (Puts phone down) Well, it looks like I can't go there, so I'll just do it here. Goodbye friend. Your companionship has kept me going these past ten minutes...
MAN 1: Two cups of tea I got. They only charged me for one, mind. Score. Eggs. Fried and scrambled. Two sausage. Bacon. Beans. Tomatoes. Toast. Toast. Beans. Toast.
MAN 2: Goodbye, cruel world. (Pulls out a gun and shoots himself in the head, leaving MAN 1 covered in a fine gumbo of blood, brains and skull fragments)
MAN 1: Black pudding. Bacon. Sausage. And a glass of orange juice, with or without bits. I asked for bits but didn't get any, so I didn't tip. Sausage...
(Music fades in gradually. It begins as a low hum but builds and builds until it establishes itself in the ears of the audience, who quickly realise that it is Achy Breaky Heart, and flee the theatre in droves.)
ACT ONE
Two men sit on a sofa. One of the men, who bears more than a passing resemblance to my cousin, Quango, reads a newspaper. The other is heavily bearded and has the air of a man who showers every day but never towel-dries his hair. After a lengthy silence (10-15 mins) MAN 1 speaks.
MAN 1: I had a full English this morning.
MAN 2: Breakfast?
MAN 1: Yep. Full English. The full Monty.
MAN 2: Bet that was nice.
MAN 1: Was. Eggs. Fried. Sausage. Bacon. Beans. Toast. Fried Bread. Fried Tomatoes. Hash Browns. Cup of tea. Sausage. Bacon. Bacon. Bacon. Not the rind. I left that. Sausage... (While he continues naming breakfast ingredients, MAN 2 begins talking)
MAN 2: Betsy left today. And she took the children. I'm all alone now. Except for you. Just me and you...
MAN 1: Beans. Beans. Fried bread. Beans. Optional extra toast.
MAN 2: And that depresses me more than words can describe. I put my head in the oven today but the gas has been cut off, so all I got was a greasy nose. I'm going to drive my car off Beachy Head tonight. Of course, I'll have to find out where that is, but as soon as I do, I'm driving off it...
MAN 1: Black pudding. Did I mention bacon? Bacon. Sausage. There was a vegetarian option but I didn't have that. I'm not a gayer.
MAN 2: (Picks up phone and dials.) Yes, information. Could you tell me where Beachy Head is, please? Really? That's quite far, I don't think I can afford that much petrol. OK, thanks. (Puts phone down) Well, it looks like I can't go there, so I'll just do it here. Goodbye friend. Your companionship has kept me going these past ten minutes...
MAN 1: Two cups of tea I got. They only charged me for one, mind. Score. Eggs. Fried and scrambled. Two sausage. Bacon. Beans. Tomatoes. Toast. Toast. Beans. Toast.
MAN 2: Goodbye, cruel world. (Pulls out a gun and shoots himself in the head, leaving MAN 1 covered in a fine gumbo of blood, brains and skull fragments)
MAN 1: Black pudding. Bacon. Sausage. And a glass of orange juice, with or without bits. I asked for bits but didn't get any, so I didn't tip. Sausage...
(Music fades in gradually. It begins as a low hum but builds and builds until it establishes itself in the ears of the audience, who quickly realise that it is Achy Breaky Heart, and flee the theatre in droves.)
A Question of Sport
Watching the Olympics these past few weeks has filled me with a mixture of pride and pain. I wasn't necessarily proud of the achievements of Team GB, but rather my great-great uncle, Lord Armitage Shanks, who took home a silver from the Antwerp Games in 1920. His event? Freestyle incest.
But the sight of competitive sports on the TV always stirs up bad memories in me; I was always very poor at games in school - during the cross country race, I somehow got lost and wandered onto a horse-racing track. I was doing well until I fell at the final furlong and was nearly euthanised.
Because of my sporting ineptitude, I was horribly bullied by the other boys. The chief bully, one Kenwood Sparks, would play cruel practical jokes on me. I lost count of the amount of times he tied my shoelaces together and then punched me in the face, and put cling film over my toilet and then punched me in the face, and ordered 25 pizzas to be delivered to my house and then punched me in the face.
Eventually I grew weary of the constant punishment, and got a transfer to the elite Johann Hari School for Liberal Young People, where the other boys would steal my dinner money and donate half to Amnesty International.
But the sight of competitive sports on the TV always stirs up bad memories in me; I was always very poor at games in school - during the cross country race, I somehow got lost and wandered onto a horse-racing track. I was doing well until I fell at the final furlong and was nearly euthanised.
Because of my sporting ineptitude, I was horribly bullied by the other boys. The chief bully, one Kenwood Sparks, would play cruel practical jokes on me. I lost count of the amount of times he tied my shoelaces together and then punched me in the face, and put cling film over my toilet and then punched me in the face, and ordered 25 pizzas to be delivered to my house and then punched me in the face.
Eventually I grew weary of the constant punishment, and got a transfer to the elite Johann Hari School for Liberal Young People, where the other boys would steal my dinner money and donate half to Amnesty International.
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