My comedy wife, Robert Florence, is trapped in a porno.
Wee Apple - A Poem by Connell
Wee apple,
Suspiciously saft.
No gonny eat it.
That wid be daft.
Dinner At the Hangman’s House
Her: How was work today, honey?
Him: Oh, the usual. Tied a rope around a man’s neck and hung him until he was dead.
My Writing Process
On some days I like to go into the garden shed with a notepad and a pencil and take advantage of the peace and quiet there. I relax and let my mind wander a bit, a half-controlled daydream if you like, and put the pencil to the paper. Without thinking about it too much, I let my hand move the pencil around the page and I just see what I come up with. I often completely lose sense of time when I do this. It’s only when the door opens that I realise that I don’t have a shed and that I’m being angrily beaten with a spade.
A Crying Man
Imagine you saw a fifty year old man crying on a park bench. Then imagine he told you his life was like a Taylor Swift song. Then imagine laughing about that man for a long, long time.
Tent Fun
If you arrive late night at a campsite and you see a small tent, it’s good fun to build your own tent over the top of it. Then, when the people come out in the morning, say, ‘Hey, what the fuck are you doing in my tent?’
Real Life Conversation With A Small Boy
- Small Boy: My farts smell like spiders.
- Me: (Nothing. There is no response to being told by a small boy that his farts smell like spiders.)
Delighted to announce that I’ve signed a muti-million pound contract to remain the Face of Sharp Sand.
Drew a line graph to show the reaction to Thatcher’s death.
War Memorials
In 20 years time, war memorials will be statues of teenage boys, sitting on their couch at home, piloting military drones with a Playstation controller in between bouts of masturbation.
Monologues For Actors
There are never enough good monologues for actors who are on the audition merry-go-round. Here are a couple of my own personal favourites. The first is from the play ‘Bruce Labia Stole My Windbreaker On Ayr Beach’ by McHugh Longford-Itch.
HENRY
Sir? Sir? Sir? Sir, I appeal to you. Sir, thank you. Yes, you. This is your sheep? I said is that your sheep?
(PAUSE)
Sheep. Oh my God, I said to the sheep. Yes. This is your sheep?
(LONG PAUSE)
Is. It. Yours. Sheep? Yes. Sincerely. This is what I ask. I ask if it is your sheep. That is a sheep. That one. That one.
(PAUSE)
(LONG PAUSE)
(PAUSE)
This is one out there. Yes. This is your sheep? No? That’s all I wanted to know.
And another. This is from Dick Cheney’s stage adaptation of Alan Shearer’s novella ‘Referee, You’re Down A Self-Referential Reality Tunnel.’
HERPES FOAM
No, no-one ever called me fat slap virtuous old salt to fuck. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No.
Stag Night Plan
1. Get encased in concrete so that only my head is sticking out.
2. Get hoisted into the air by a helicopter.
3. Have the helicopter drag my concrete-encased body through dozens of wooden chalets in the French alps, causing untold devastation.
4. Have renowned sculptor chisel me out of the concrete.
5. Pose for Playboy.
