Wednesday, 27 August 2014


Thanks if you came to my show in Edinburgh. Think all the reviews are here in case you want to waste time reading them (I know I do!)

London runs for Capitalism and Sheeps at the Invisible Dot this autumn. Dates announced soon. 

Saturday, 2 August 2014


Laughing Horse @ The Cellar Monkey
Aug 1-31 (not 11)

Friday, 6 June 2014

Cambridge Show

Liam Williams: Capitalism
ADC Theatre, Cambridge
11/06, 11pm
Tickets:  …

Saturday, 12 April 2014

Channel 4 Comedy 'Blaps'

Ep 1 - 'Things

Ep 2 - 'Monotony'

Ep 3 - 'Home' 

Tuesday, 25 February 2014

Sheeps: Live at the Goat

A new video, directed by Andrew Gaynord. 

Monday, 17 February 2014

Leicester Show - 23rd February

Liam Williams at Dave's Leicester Comedy Festival

Sun 23rd February
Belmont Hotel

Tickets Here

Tuesday, 28 January 2014

Radio 1 - Lolz Lounge

I did a set on Radio 1. The thumb scores have been quite negative.

Friday, 17 January 2014


I'm doing a bit of a tour. 

Tickets here

Thursday, 9 January 2014

Cambridge Show. 18/01

Cambridge Show, ADC Theatre, Sat 18th January, 11pm

Tickets here

More Spring tour dates coming soon.

Thursday, 28 November 2013

whatever was on the cover of the maths textbook

whatever was on the cover of the maths textbook
depressed me
whether it was a lake or an apple,
i knew it offered no chance to flirt with mystery
only a mandate to hold mystery down by the throat
while a class mate bludgeoned it repeatedly on the head
with a smooth rock.

Wednesday, 27 November 2013

Liam Williams Pamphlet: 'Commonplace'

This is to a book what a Vine video is to a film. You can buy it for £3 here

Monday, 18 November 2013

Soho Theatre Run

Tickets here

Wednesday, 13 November 2013

Sheeps Videos

Some Sheeps sketches we made a while ago with Tom Kingsley and Will Sharpe. 

English Exercise 54: Breakfast




Black Eyed Peas Having a Meeting

A Song For Mad Simon


What's in my Pocket?

Wednesday, 9 October 2013

New Sheeps Show, London, Oct 21 & 22

Sheeps are doing a new show at the Invisible Dot, Kings X, Oct 21 & 22. Tickets here here.

Monday, 2 September 2013

'Liam Williams' in London (1-9 Nov)

Tickets here

Recommended in The Guardian (02/09):

Sunday, 9 June 2013


Click here for more goss about the show.

I'm also going to be in a play called 'Making News' at the Pleasance Courtyard. Info here. 

Tuesday, 7 February 2012

The Stopper 'mongst the Wheat

A Short Story From My New Collection I Want to go on the Internet!

Jevember 2005. I’m an inpatient in Saint Oldname’s asylum, the weird boy’s unit. The building sits like a red-brick cat deep in the English moors, 50 miles from the nearest love. Inside the asylum, the walls talk and the talk walls.

My roomate murmurs away in the corner like an irrelevant radio-play. He’s got a silly boy’s body and a collapsed mind. He told me this morning is name is George, but yesterday it was Harry, before that, Paul, tomorrow it might be Vicar Vance or Rails Modernsmith. It matters not. A rose by any other name will still wilt. My name’s Walden Turnpike, by the way. Least it was, last I checked.

The self-claimed George asks me how I came to be in this white-washed wrong-place which leads me to reflect on how I came to be in this white-washed wrong place. I reflect on the recent past like a smashed mirror giving a warped impression of a lady’s face.

I began to recount the events of the last year succinctly.

Earlier that Narrative...

Snowflakes panicked at being released from the sky and moved vertically and a little bit horizontally too. Reaching the ground, they fell to rest, fucking exhausted from their fall. The blanket of snow was like a blanket of snow, hiding the school grounds and cancelling the hills beyond the fence. It was a melancholy scene and the perfect opening image for this sad story.

I turned from the window, to the flabby chops of Mr Dickhead, the headteacher. His face was a different colour from the white snow, which represented innocence and some other things. Mr Dickhead’s face was structured in such a way that suggested how much of a dickhead he was. ‘Bleugh bleurgh bleurgh’ he said. I wasn’t listening - something about me failing my exams and getting expelled from this expensive school, and maybe something about one of his balls hurting, and me letting down my parents, and it being likely I was going to have an unpleasant life. What did I care? Did you know that nothing actually matters? We’re all gonna be bukkaked with sadness when the banks collapse anyway. It was only 2004, and I was only 16, but I am very prescient so you should value me as a character-narrator. I muttered something intelligent and walked out.


Forty Seconds Later

Back in the dorm, Strongleader was holding up photos he had taken from my drawer. ‘Wook at wittle Walden wiv mummy!’ he said. He had a speech impediment. He presented another one to the baying mob of unpoetic boys. ‘Hey look, it’s Abi Hope, you wuuv her don’t you Walden?’ ‘Shame she don’t wuv you’. Despite his prosodic handicap, it was clear he was mocking me. ‘She wouldn’t stop moaning about you to me during the summer’, he hectored. ‘In fact she does a lot of moaning when we’re together. Have to shut her up with my almost adult-sized dick.’ Abi is the only thing that can catalyse the chemical tank of my inhibited emotions, so to hear her misogynised in this way effected a volatile reaction concordant with the previous metaphor. I flew at Strongleader like a coked-up Wolf, but he served me a clean blow to the chin with a tidy-side of cruel laughter.

One Hour Later...

One hour later, muzzle cleaned of blood, and future cleaned of prospects I boarded the train to London. The sky quickly inked black and blue, and as we bezzed through the pointless county-towns. I thought of all the others like me in these dreary homes - lit against the sky like bourgeois LEDs on a circuit board of guilty privilege - unable to play happy with toys of nothing: MSN messenger, Nokia 3310s, trampolines. It was all bullshit.


I take a taxi-cab from Paddington-railway-train-station, and ask the driver where the ducks go when the lake freezes in Regent’s park. He just scowls and calls me a cunt.


My unclever parents weren’t expecting me home until Wednesday, so with my returned school money, I checked into the Badplace Hotel in Soho, the diseased liver of London, my soul a non-place and my heart beating like a lonely metronome, longing for music.

I sat on the cummy bed, smoking a cigarette like a nasty man, and saw a gang of perverts, fucking about with each other through the window opposite.

A grimy queen giggled like a chaffinch as he rolled on a pair of lady’s nylons, and some bat faced moll wobbled through an appalling strip tease to the delight of six rancid deviants who huddled around her, slugging gin and masturbating one another’s knobs.

I wasn’t disgusted, rather scared and sad, but nonetheless I felt the blood surge in my groin and a sudden protrusion 'tween my groin-flanks, as if I had been fitted with a magnetic baton, positively charged and and pulling me to the negative of the Soho night scene. I had an erection and wanted to use it.

On Berwick street I sneak [your tenses are all over the place - Ed] [fuck you, mate - Liam] into a grotty basement bar, where media types dance ironically. I take a table and am approached first by a panda-eyed blonde in a wine-stained sheer-white blouse, sharking for slurps, and then a tired waiter who takes an order and returns with drinks. There’s a beer, diluted like a toddlers squash, for me, and for her, a double Bells and ginger ale which she employs to numb a pain she’s been carrying round since age 28. She speaks of a failed marriage and a regrettable acting career, then leaves on the arm of an unfeeling Eastern European stud, leaving me to meet the tab.

And then the street again, and a traditional English telephone box, displaying picture postcards advertising love-for-hire. I try calling Abi but her Dad answers and tells me she’s not home. I weep briefly and look at the prozzie-ads. There’s an alabaster skinned model, a two tone-black and white - pale of face, and dark of hair, who reminds me of Abi. My memory media-player streams bleary footage of our first try at love, when Abi lowered herself onto me, slowly and tentatively like a pensioner getting into a hot bath. We shared scared eyes in her girly box room, photos of magazine boys on the walls, and soft-toy reworkings of Disney’s Winnie the Pooh and friends around us on the bed, watching our unimpressive sex act like an ashamed Greek chorus.

In this new Abi’s blood red room, I am ordered to undress by an emaciated coke addict and I shiver and take a long time unlacing my hush puppies. She waits for me to make good on my purchase, but being so young and without Thanatos, I fail and ask to hold her and maybe just talk. She grows mad and I fumble myself into a clothed state, fingering nervously at buttons as I used to in the changing rooms after rugby.


I collect my case from the hotel and check out before Soho ruptures my soul and take a taxi back to the beginning. The meter tallies each damn-dumb minute as we head south and I ask the driver where the ducks in Hyde Park go where the lake freezes. He just scowls and calls me a cunt.


So as not to disturb my parents, I let myself in the back door, and creep through to the living room where my sister is watching a film about American puppet-people going to the dance. ‘Walden!’ she says from her mouth. She is surprised and nearly happy to see me. ‘What are you doing here?’ she asks. I tell her about school, getting expelled, and claim not to care. She accuses me off not liking anything, gives some silly lecture about me being a numbheart and enemy of joy, and I irrelevantly start talking about an old Robert Burns poem Mum taught us when we were little kids. I want to be the ‘Stopper ’mongst the Wheat’ I say and cry like a widow. It’s ‘Catcher in the Rye’ she says. I pretend not to hear and continue saying poetic things. “All these children, all of them getting older and running through the wheat, just running, not knowing where they’re going and they don’t know that there’s a poacher hiding in the wheat, ready to catch them in sacks. Gold sacks. Gold sacks for catching men. Gold man sacks. It’s like a personification of the investment bank, UBS. There’s a man in the wheat, and his name is greed. ‘I’m staying the night and going at dawn’ I upsettingly say. Then I spend a few minutes plugging my iPod into the TV, arseing about with myriad cables, and play Eagle Eye Cherry’s ‘Save Tonight’ as to really up the pathos. We listed to it 10 or 11 times, then go to sleep, in separate beds, both crying pretty hard by now.


In the morning I wake early so as not to disturb my parents and she’s waiting in the kitchen with her pink suitcase. She tells me she wants to come and I don’t say anything.

Then we go to the fair for no reason. She rides on a merry go round and I cry again because it’s very sad.

I can’t actually be arsed to talk about how I ended up in the asylum.


Now, it’s time to close the narrative frame. Back in the asylum, where I currently am, (remember?) I finish my story and notice George has stopped listening. He’s just staring at the wall and imagining something weird in his mad mind.

Being a teenager is very shit; please buy my book.

Sunday, 8 January 2012

Thursday, 12 May 2011

Tube Angst

Wednesday, 27 April 2011

The Royal Wedding

Unless you've been trapped down a hole (LIKE THOSE CHILEAN MINERS WERE!!!?) for the last 6 months, you'll know that this coming Friday is no ordinary coming Friday. First of all it's a bank holiday, but I don't imagine many people will be too concerned about not being able to pay a cheque in! That's right, there's a little (that is if you consider a service in Westminster Abbey, some of the most powerful leaders from around the world in attendance and a nation of millions watching on TV sets at home (as well people in countless other countries!) to be little!) wedding taking place in London.

For most people it's a day off work and a way to celebrate everything British (St. George's flags, St. George's hats, the list is endless!), but for any self-respecting satirist such as myself it's an opportunity to take a side-on look at this momentous day. ;)

So here it is - my Royal Wedding Skit. (Just don't tell the Queen!)

Lights Up

Westminster Abbey.

Vicar/Priest (at least it's not an Imam. Although the way things are going...): Will you, Catherine, take this man to be your lawful wedded husband?

Kate: I will.

Will: No, I Will. You Kate!

Lights Down

To anybody who finds that offensive or disrespectful then I'm sorry but it's just a joke for God/Allah's sake! If you can't deal with that then I suggest you get off my blog and visit a website more to your tastes, this one perhaps.

Well, whatever you think about the monarchy you have to admit that's it all good fun. From the novelty t-shirts to the novelty jumpers there's plenty to enjoy! I'll be sad when it's all over, to be honest. What have we got to look forward to after that? Well, if William is anything like his father it will be the Royal Divorce (can't imagine people throwing as many street parties for that event.) I don't think we've got anything to worry about. Kate strikes me as the sort of girl who knows how to keep her man wanting more;)

Enjoy the wedding everyone, and to Wills and Kates... have a good honeymoon. I'm sure they will ;)

Wednesday, 6 April 2011


Just a bit of info about my sketch group 'Sheeps'. This is what most of my focus is on at the moment and it's very pleasant to do. It's me and two of my friends, Daran Johnson and Alastair Roberts. We're going to the Edinburgh Fringe this year (Pleasance Courtyard: 'Hut' - 16:45) and will soon be 'revamping our online and social media presence' (because we're soulless little sketch whores now), but if you want to find out a bit more and come and see us perform soon, then have a look on our Facebook page.

Here is a picture of us looking at a camera:

Thursday, 31 March 2011

For Moloch

Moloch, I stood all day in a shopping centre.
Clean, ergonomically, psychologically conceited shopping centre.
Moloch, I stood all day in your temple.
I stood and surveyed those who came.
I stood and communed with your worshippers.
Moloch, I asked them why they came to the temple,
And although you paid me to ask them,
You made me richer than you would have wanted.
Moloch, today I stood and understood
Why they came to the shopping centre.
Moloch, I have sat and typed to your worshippers.
Moloch, you have paid me to write the voice of one of your prophets.
And although the voice was weak and few followed,
You have paid me more than you would have wanted.
Moloch, I now understand why they're listening.
Moloch, I understand why they supplicate.
Moloch, I have looked up.
Few look up, but I have looked up and noticed the hose-pipe swinging.
The hose-pipe hanging from the roof of the shopping centre.
And the funnel sitting in the roof.
And your fat and sanguine cheeks stuffed into the funnel.
And felt the breath (borrowed from your priests) sucking up.

Completing surveys with shoppers, I spotted the secret siphon.


Moloch, it is nearly over.
Moloch, we're in the final round.
Moloch, it's nearly over.
Moloch, you're so nearly there.
But, I'm Rocky Balboa, Moloch.
And (ironically) you're Ivan Drago.
And I will simply not go down.

Moloch, it is 1999.
And you are Bayern Munich.
And we are Man Utd.
Moloch, you are leading 1-0.
We're in injury time.
Sheringham (Marx, Lenin, Ginsberg, etc) has been on for ten minutes.
And they've just brought on Solskjaer (me).

You're about to lose.

Tomorrow, I'm going to fill in the surveys with wildly unrealistic answers.
And the right arm triggers back.
And the ball goes out for a corner...

Friday, 14 January 2011

A Multiple Choice Question

Q: Do you know how to tick boxes?

Yes [ ]

No [ ]

Thursday, 30 September 2010

Niche Irony

My friends decided to walk 20 miles, downtown to the airport.

I preferred to stay in the hotel room, read my book on psychogeography and then take a taxi.

Thursday, 8 July 2010

My McDonalds Ad

McDonalds are running a series of television adverts with a sort of 'poetry-of-the-people' atmosphere.

Here's a sample:

I've written my own version:

"A load of unremarkable fuckheads, gluttonous behemoths, with no ethical substance,
Were just passing by."

(Repeat until everybody stops listening)

N.B. I actually eat at McDonalds a lot.

Sunday, 4 July 2010

The Urban Fox Hunt

A fox made his way into a Greater London homestead
and mauled two kipping little-ones -

And so began the Great Urban Fox Hunt.

The city-dwellers took up golf clubs, strapped kitchen-knives to the ends of broomsticks,
and gathered together whatever instruments of vulpine slaughter they could lay hands on.

They rode vespas and lobbed bricks.

One lad brought a deodorant can and a lighter,
stamped outside fox-holes, layed down bacon steaks,


crouched patiently,


and grilled the little fuckers as they surfaced.


By dawn a smoking pyre of charcoaled corpses had been built,
and the rural gentry spluttered with envy into their morning papers.

Thursday, 1 July 2010

Simple Typographical Representation of Love #3


e v e r y t h i n g e l s e

Simple Typographical Representation of Love #2

the world
the world YOU the world
the world

Simple Typographical Representation of Love #1


Tuesday, 29 June 2010

A Dead Dog Rotting on a Rooftop

A dead dog rotting on a rooftop
raises a number of questions
about the permanence of matter
and the nature of disgust,

but not least
"what was he doing up there?"
and "how did he die?"

Thursday, 24 June 2010

Dr. Mr Ad Man

Dear Mr Ad Man,

Stop stealing our dreams and trying to sell them back to us.

Shove your Picket Fence, and your Mac Book up your arse. Then you'll know how we all feel, when you enter our sphincters uninvited.

Like a greedy empire-builder, you've colonised our souls for 80 years (this is just a guess; I'm not sure when they invented advertising but I imagine it came about after Wall St.) and now we want them back.

I won't buy your golf clubs, or your trouser press, or your 'Lost' box-set.

I will buy a tooth brush and tooth paste -

- not because you tell me to, but because if I don't my teeth will rot -

and I will brush my teeth in a mountain stream,

and I will sit in the forest and weep.

Yours sincerely,
A Human Being.

Moving through Public Spaces

I'm getting better at moving in physical space and around other people. Now, when I enter a busy pedestrian zone I set my gait to tentative and my voice to apologetic and I just go...

There are still challenges, such as doors - popular entranceways and bottlenecks can be a real test of one's ability to move well. The trick is to be decisive: see a blockage, open the body up like a top-order batsman and get the back flat against a wall, giving all the other folk a good bank along which to move. The key is not to dart straight into the centre of the throng, head bowed, furtively thrusting this way and that, misleading people as to your intentions.

And if it's your job to hold the door open for the others, do it with composure. Grasp the bastard quickly, as if to say, 'yep, I've got this one guys, go on, I'll be here for a good few seconds yet!'. Don't just parry it away. If you just thrust a heavy door open, it can slam back, traumatising a young wrist or shattering an elderly hip.

Friday, 2 April 2010

The Morning Following Homerton May Ball 2007

Tents and poleslike the scaffolds and housesof the assurance of our youthare removed.

Not one echo speaks now of what was there;only patches on the lawn,which will fade.

Thursday, 25 February 2010

Raven Kennings (Nicknames)

Some Kennings/Nicknames for Ravens (Contains No Jokes):

Basically, a Kenning is "a circumlocution used instead of an ordinary noun in Old Norse and later Icelandic poetry." To find out more about Kennings, why not have a little Wikipedia sesh

Here are my raven-based Kennings:

Nightmare Scavenger

Black Flyer

Poe's Prince

Sky Dot

Garden Scarer

Jet Beak

Tree Watcher

Death Box

Sleek Feather

Death Sender

Crow Seemly

Nought Fearer

Swoop Swiftly

Sky Dancer

Dark Bearer

Roof Dart

Nature's Sentinel

Bold Head

Brash Flank

Pitch Mystery

Uncanny Friend

Humble Egoist

That Bird

And that is enough of that.

Free Verse #3

The wizened window
Provides light,
And I lie:

Happy, but hungry,

Just thinking,
And I enjoy it!

Town Planner Work

I've just completed some freelance work for the government, coming up with new names and ideas for the new towns they'd build if they get re-elected. Here are some of my favourites:

Hackney Spit: A village, but in the centre of London. I propose knocking down half of Hackney and creating a green belt. The word 'Spit' could plausibly refer to the small artificial stream that will run through it.

Tompleston: Lancashire mining town. Only one colliery left out of the original nine. High unemployment and increasing problem with heroin. Could get someone like Paul Mccartney to run a brass band to boost morale.

Edinburgh II (Gloucestershire): A little piece of Scotland in England. Perhaps it could be just straightforwardly swapped with Gloucester as a sort of cultural exchange, although the Scots will probably be quite keen to hang on to Edinburgh and try to fob us off with somewhere shitter like Arbroath.

Gunny Hole: One of those quaint/weird little hamlets in Cornwall or somewhere. On an average summer's day, it would have more tourists than residents, on account of an old stone in a forest clearing that has something to do with a witch or wizard or something. Maybe Merlin went to school there.

Blae: A new spa-town. Highest property prices outside of London. Famous residents could include Anthony Worral Thompson and Emma Thompson (not related, I don't think).

Glaweynnig: Welsh town, population 23,000. Famous for its cheese which is like a crumblier version of cheddar.

Centre-Site: A completely new urban metropolis. Built from scratch, bang in the centre of the UK, in the middle of the Lancashire countryside. It becomes popular for graduates and immigrants because of the cheapness of property and therefore soon boasts the most effective workforce in the Europe. It becomes the world leader in Photoshopping and IPhone App development, and is soon given status as the 'Capital of the UK', restoring Britain the glory it enjoyed during the Empire days, and leaving London a crumbling, festering wasteland.

Tuesday, 23 February 2010

A Job Advertisement

Position: Correspondence Co-ordination Co-operative Customer Assistant Junior Executive Sales Team Synchronicity Assistant Junior Staff Role Advisor Producer (Drone)

Location: One of those hulking great, urban monoliths. The second floor, and you'll be stuffed in the corner, and chained to a radiator and chewed on by rats. Foul places. It's fucking awful and you'll fucking hate it. Good transport links. Except when the tube's closed. Then you'll be an hour late and they'll fucking scream at you, and you'll go outside at lunchtime, and shake, and smoke, and stare into the canal and weep a bit.

Salary: £0.00 - 7.28768 ph. 50% of which will be spent in the pub after work, so you can numb yourself enough to prevent yourself jumping in front of the train on the way home. Generous bonuses provided, but you'll never get one.

Sector: Public sector - public/other (it's meaningless, no-one cares about this sort of thing, no-one takes an interest in it, you're literally helping to turn a cog in a boring machine. And you'll definitely be laid off soon.).

Job Description: Temporary sort of nobody required to help do the paperwork. We've got a bit more money from somewhere, so we might as well get someone to tidy up in the office a bit, and we need someone to bully a bit, to make us feel a bit better about how shit and stupid we all are. Erm specifically, the role involves: ghgi0ejehghdljkdjkdjdhgjghdfuckingnothingfuckingpointless,

and also: drafting letters, correspondence, tidying the paper up, getting the tea and coffee, you little prick, getting patronised, getting abused, trying to get off with one of the receptionists, actually getting off with one of the girls in the complaints department, because she is uglier and even more lonely than you, breaking things off with said girl, because she's very mad, and has no self-esteem left, and then ignoring her every single day until you leave.

The successful candidate will have/be:

Good IT skills (better than an an ape)
-Excellent organisational skills (The ability to walk)
-A demonstrable passion and enthusiasm for the really boring insignificant thing that we deal with here.
-An excelent grasp of enligsh SPelling, and, grammer.
-Coordination, advising, junior executive locaquation skills
-Have at least 25 years experience in this sector, but also be under 24
-Be female and shaggable (desired, but not required)
-Not be intellectually intimidating.
A completely arbitrary quality that you can't define.
-The potential to become a bolshy, egotistical cunt/manager.

Email your CV, cover letter, and picture of your genitals to:

Friday, 19 February 2010

Rejected Riddles

I recently sent off a bundle of riddles to popular riddle-mag Riddler's Digest. They rejected all my riddles so I thought I'd publish them here:

1) What can (but not necessarily is) be made of wood, and is the piece of furniture that you'd traditionally eat your dinner from (although it's becoming more common to eat it off something like a breakfast bar, or straight out of the oven in fact, I think that's getting quite common) ? They have other purposes too: e.g. snooker, craps (the game) and a mountain in Africa

BUT they don't swim or talk (amongst many other things).

2) It has three prongs and it's often silver (not a trident, but very similar to one, in terms of shape).

3) Often referred to as 'a cat'

Answers by email.

Thursday, 18 February 2010

Free Verse #2

Dance for me.

Slower this time.

And lose the rugby shirt.

Wednesday, 17 February 2010

Free Verse: July 2008

July 2008

The only viable solution now
Would be to smash the house to pieces
In an impotent rage.

Eight weeks to go.
Seven if I leave early.
I'll leave early.

Now I must break up the time,
Give myself the impression
That I have things to look forward to.
Tomorrow, I'll go into town
And read in Borders
And perhaps steal a book.
On Thursday, I shall go to town again,
And drink beer at 80p a bottle
And meet disappointment on the landing.

I should go for a run,
Weave the old familiar path,
Down the street where nothing ever happens
And it's always equilibrium, through the ginnels,
Across the expanse of the school field - my old school -
Not yet sold for land for houses, sweep away,
In a curve, dart into the landscape,
Holding factories and warehouses
Amongst the trees,
Crowned by the A1/M1 link road.

I'm learning not to give a fuck about
And then I'll carefully select -
One by one -
The things I would like
To give a fuck about.

Free Verse #1

A Rustle in the Bushes.

A Rat?

Just a Bird.

Tuesday, 16 February 2010

Some Premises for Plays

I'm trying to break into contemporary theatre-writing (making) and have come up with some premises for some possible plays. Feedback welcome.

1) Cowamour.
A troubled schoolboy falls in love with a cow. He dreams of the cow every night, and in the daytimes, breaks into a local dairy-farm and drinks straight from the teet. The action switches between the boy's stream-of-consciousness confessions and his mother's dialogue with a psychotherapist, who blames the boy's condition on his father's death from CJD, after refusing to eat any food but beef (British) during the 90s. The action culminates with a piece of physical theatre in which the actors symbolise bovine fellatio.

2) Fucking Dead
An issues play, involving a cast of 100 16-19.5 year olds, all of whom die (of aids, knives, teenage pregnancy etc). Daniel Radcliff plays a scouse pimp who traffics dead teenagers for necrophiliacs.

3) Rich
A tragicomedy about an Undergraduate of St. Trinityjohns college at the University of Cambridgeoxford called Rich, President of the infamous Bullwinkle Club. On the club's annual dinner in rural Farmsworth, the club's members burn down a barn and rape a milkmaid. The action covers their guilt-ridden dialogue in the police station the following morning.

4) Narniamatics
A literature-maths hybrid show in which C.S Lewis' novels are translated into binary and the familiar characters are reimagined as geometric shapes.

5)Come Dine With Me: The Musical
A dramatised version of the popular Channel 4 food-based bitchfest. The witty narrator is played by a barbershop quartet and the audience is encouraged to sing along to hits such as 'Where's the Wok?', 'Just a 7 for Angela' and '"Lovely Place" she lied'.

6) The Day We Sold the World
Now boringly irrelevant dramatisation of the banking crisis based on extensive research (10 minutes browsing the BBC News Economic Section). The drama focuses on Matilda Hucks, the most powerful Bankress in the city, who wagers £689,0000,00,0000 on Everton to win the Carling Cup, and singlehandedly plummets the world into financial meltdown. The subplot features Malcolm Streets, a single uncle who borrows against a false mortgage valuation to buy a new skipping rope for his niece and then hangs himself with it.

7) Supernanny Live
Bolshy, boorish child-toturer Jo Frost invites members of the audience to bring their children up on stage and submits them to a rigorous disciplinary programme, involving russian-roullette and waterboarding.

8) 2.28 Madness de la Cunt
A vitriolic attack on the smugness of the sane. Hardwick, an asylum inmate rants against his captors. Who is mad and who is sane? The walls talk and the talk walls. Gina used to know the sky but now she only knows her own skull. Dreams become realities and realities become language. Language breaks and no one can escape the future. Contains over 1000 swear words.

9) The Balloon in the Sink
Working-class kitchen-sink realism meets Ionesco-esque absurdism. Shirley, a dinner lady, chooses to ignore the balloon she notices in the sink one morning. She gets on with talking about the weather (to herself), but the balloon gets bigger and soon it's got a few thoughts of its own and it wants to share them.

10) This Scuppered Isle
Bitter social satire about the decline of the United Kingdom. John England spends every day wanking into a St.George's flag, but when the council try to tell him to use a Pakistani flag instead, John sets out on a one man mission to restore the values that his beloved Nation has lost. Who will bear the brunt of John's campaign but Mr. Jadif, the local curry-vendor?

Wednesday, 27 January 2010

Quick Quiz.

1)In order of preference, list the elements of the periodic table

2)How did Dave Benson Phillips die?

3)On a scale of one to 10, with 5 being the highest and 7 being the lowest, what is the fastest land mammal?

4)This statement is false – do you agree?

5)What is the Christinan name, the Christian name... of the first steam engine?

6)If mary is twice as tall as sanjit, and petra is 2 inches older than stingray, then how old is terry glockenspiel?

7)Complete the song lyric – ‘Love…’

Tuesday, 26 January 2010

Counting: A Haiku

Counting: A haiku.

One, Two, Three, Four, Five
Six, Seven, Eight, Nine, Ten, E-
-leven, Twelve, Thirteen.