The World of Copywriting

Copywriting is a big thing these days. Every company has a list of in house or freelance copywriters churning out content for them day after day. So, what is copywriting? You ask. Well you don’t ask, but it helps me move on with my general point.

Copywriting is the art of bullshitting your way though 300+ words when 4 would do and no one’s really that interested anyway.

Having always thought I would become either a kick arse rock star, an acclaimed actor or world-renowned author, I didn’t really bother honing any skills, or developing any knowledge base that would help me in my day to day life.  This is a fact that has backfired on me somewhat. In terms of rock starryness, I was in a band that won Hertfordshire under 18s battle of the bands when I was 16. We won £300 and got to headline an outdoor festival in the middle of Letchworth Garden City one frosty day to a crowd of 9, one of which was an old man that told us to quieten down. In terms of acting, I have appeared in the Oscar winning picture The Theory of Everything, using my chameleon like acting skills to successfully portray a 60s student, a 70s student and some bloke in a tuxedo. Redmayne did not mention me in his speech. The bastard.

All hopes rested on my authoriness and to that end I have worked hard to refine my use of the written word, coming up with words such as ‘starryness’ and ‘authoriness’. I wasted 3 years studying for a degree in English Literature, by which I mean I turned up on the exam days. After completing 3 young adult fantasy novels before being told by a literary agent that pretty much no agent can be bothered to look at young adult fantasy and, if they do, it rarely makes any money, I poured my heart and soul (and one lightly beaten egg) into a piece of literary fiction. After three drafts I sent it to various agents to be told that ‘whilst it has merit, dear god no, never contact us again.’

So, after splitting all my eggs into three ridiculous and improbable baskets only to leave all three of them on a train somewhere, I realised I had no employable skills.

Or so I thought.

I managed to get work as a copywriter/content editor, despite my loose canon approach to grammar. I like to think of myself as a punk writer, deliberately ignoring all literary rules.

From the editorial side, I trawl through content created by hundreds of self-employed freelancers who have no business writing anything, let alone making a career out of it. I spend my time redoing other people’s work for minimum wage whilst they earn far more than I.

Every website, every catalogue, every piece of marketing material produced had a copywriter generate the text for them. Which means, thousands of people are in employment despite their clear lack of any skills whatsoever. Which is either good news or bad news for me, depending on your outlook.

Good news, because I can pay rent (just about), bad because it’s all so very dull and pointless and dull. The writing skills I have honed over the years can be utilised in exchange for money. Alas, they’ll be used to talk about the virtues of a vegetable peeler.

I spent a fortnight writing descriptions of various cars for a website that sold various cars. Realistically, all that was needed was ‘Here is a Land Rover. You know what it does.’ Instead, I had to write about how spacious they were. I know very little about cars, but I do know that all people care about is that they’re spacious, my working theory being that due to the rocketing house prices, people are taking to living in Land Rovers.

I spent another fortnight editing copy for a renowned UK chain whom I won’t name for legal reasons, but are effectively a store that sold baths. A bath store if you will.

Two days of this editing was devoted entirely to toilet seats. Now call me ignorant, but I don’t feel there’s much that can be said about a toilet seat. The writer in question kept on trying to convince me that ‘this toilet seat is very versatile’ which I had to remove from 30 + pieces of content for fear of being implicated in a case of false advertising. Unless there are toilet seats out there that double as stylish hats or cheese boards, they have a very singular purpose. For all their qualities, versatility is not one of them.

This is a symptom of a terrible marketing disease. Companies are deciding that they need to sell their items, as in really sell them. As opposed to just pretending to sell them, which is a lot more complicated.

Because of this bizarre idea, we are left with websites sporting plastic cups accompanied by an entire paragraph extolling the virtues of said plastic cups. ‘These are more than cups, they are vessels to carry whatever your heart desires. Perfect for mass suicides, they’re available in a host of different colours to match your cult.’

It’s madness. Currently writing pieces for a well-known auctioning site that rhymes with ShleBay, there’s a listing of Celebrity dolls. My original entry was ‘Do you want an old Michael Jackson doll in its original packaging? If so, get a fucking life.’  This was rejected by the client and I was given a verbal warning.

A freelancer describing a listing of picture frames stated ‘no home is complete without pictures of your family.’ Or before I edited ‘No home is complete without pictures of you’re family.’ (£10 a piece she was paid). Anyway, incorrect words aside, this annoyed me because it reaffirmed the fact that I will forever have an incomplete home, due to the fact that I don’t even have a girlfriend with whom to start a family, let alone take pictures of to put in a £2.85 frame.

It’s a picture frame damn it. All that is needed is ‘A frame for your pictures. £2.85, buy it or don’t it’s your choice at the end of the day.’

But we have to really sell it.

So, I will utilise my new found knowledge of copywriting to really sell my self-published shitty comedy short story collection that I published years ago without editing it properly.

Flesh out your virtual bookshelf with The Tiny Compendium of Ridiculousness, a recently discovered collection of children’s short stories by esteemed and entirely fictional 19th century author Hubert J Watergipridget. These clever and engaging stories, introduced and interpreted by the top man at Cambridge or somewhere (who may or may not also be fictional), will have you on the edge of your seat, so close to the edge that you are guaranteed to fall off at some point, so maybe put some cushions down, or read it lying down.

For as little as 99p or whatever small change it is in your country that uses other nonsensical currencies, you will get the most versatile eBook yet, as this can and will be used as a stylish hat and also has enough curative powers to cure cancer or chronic back pain. It will expand your mind so much, that you will evolve beyond the need for a physical form and will in fact become a lesser god.

Buy it today.


Waves of Bullshit

I’m bored so have decided to work on an ill conceived series of posts called the Waves of Bullshit. Enjoy.

There are various waves of bullshit that we have to endure as we tread the waters of life for as long as possible, until we eventually succumb to exhaustion and sink beneath the surface for good. Every aspect of existence is tainted by the foul stench of metaphorical excrement, there’s simply no avoiding it. Positive people with an unnecessary amount of optimism will accuse me of being a cynic, chastise me for being overly dour and not appreciating that I have what might be called, a particularly easy life.  Whilst this may be true, it ultimately changes nothing.  Sometimes you’ll find that there’s so much bullshit that the only way to get through a day is to drink heavily until things start making sense, or at least you get so drunk you cease to care that it’s all nonsense. This, tragically, makes tomorrow’s bullshit all the harder to deal with.

I would spend some time talking about the farce that is Brexit or the bizarre twist that was Trump being elected president of the united states, but everyone’s done that to death and by the time I finish writing this we’d have all moved on.


We humans, we had it rough to begin with.  Our cavepeople ancestors were not at the top of the food chain and had an extremely laxed approach to health and safety. Our insistence on standing upright means that our young are born having not had the time to fully develop, heck, they have a hole in their damn heads. They have next to no survival instinct, struggle to regulate their body temperatures and have an almost non-existent immune system. On average, humans give birth to one baby at a time, assuming we’re talking about the mode, which we are obviously, the other averages can fuck off. Up until as late as the industrial revolution, children (particularly in working class families) often had the annoying habit of dying before their fifth birthday. This is why parents tended to have as many children as possible, to up the probability of their family enduring. Children dying was so common that frequently, parents would refrain from naming their children until their fifth birthday, where upon they were sent out into the world to earn a living.

What has this got to do with the bullshit of today?

Well, historically, life was hard. It’s crazy to believe that we survived, let alone dominate the globe. Life was a complex daily struggle against a world that confused and terrified us. Now we know more than we ever have. With a quick Google we can get access to a wealth of knowledge. Almost everything is automated and has been handed over to our good friends ‘the machines.’ We have beat nature in many respects and now babies don’t die very often and life is not a constant struggle. For us westerners anyway.

Yet, I can’t help but feel we’ve been unable to shake off the mindset of our caveman ancestors. We’ve invented complex languages, so can now express ourselves more eloquently, but the gist of what we say is probably the same. Life should be easy, but we humans seem to have the need to make it complicated.

This book is not going to change anything. It will offer no wise ruminations, no quotable messages of motivation or of unity. It’s mainly a self-indulgent account of some things I’ve done in the past and why everything is bullshit.

The World of Work.

You will find CEOs and managers in the world of work can only communicate in clichés or laboured analogies and metaphors. This is one of the most single frustrating habits anyone can have and speaks of a lack of independent thought. Only an idiot speaks in sayings and analogies. You know this is true because if you spare a second’s thought, you will realise that none of them make any sense.

In a story I will get to later, a CEO once told me that ‘there’s an old saying that goes: loose lips sink ships.’ Which is the very height of bullshit. In the history of human’s traversing the seas, very few ships if any have been sunk by lips, loose or otherwise. Ice bergs sink ships. Poor ship manufacturing sinks ships. Bombs, torpedoes and explosions sink ships. Lips are very unlikely to cause even the smallest amount of cosmetic damage, let alone anything of consequence.

I was so annoyed that this phrase even exists I had to research why it exists in the first place. As it happens the phrase originates in those golden years of 1939 – 1945, humanities second attempt at killing everyone. The third one has been on the cards for some time now, but we all know it’ll all be CGI and explosions.

As it happens it was a piece of propaganda with variations around the world, all of which made more sense. Great Britain had ‘careless talk costs lives,’ which is straight to the point. The Germans went with Schäm Dich, Schwätzer! Which translated into English reads ‘Shame on you, Blabbermouth.’ Which I’m sure we can all agree is the single best piece of propaganda the world has ever seen or will see again.

See I wouldn’t mind if he said ‘shame on me, blabbermouth.’

Anything to do with a company is so far removed from a ship, that the phrase has no bearing.  Anyway, I responded with ‘there’s another lesser known phrase that goes “pay your web developer lest he delete your sites.”

I no longer work for that company.

Another manager of the past used phrases like ‘onwards and upwards’ or ‘eyes on the prize’ like he was some weird game show host.

Another would say things like ‘That so and so, he’s like a hurricane, he blows on through here and we’re left to clear up the mess. Then once we clean up the mess, he’s back again, blowing everything over.’ And ‘It’s like doing a million piece jigsaw puzzle, except you can’t see the picture and there are two puzzles mixed up.’ At which point I asked, “why on earth would you do that? More to the point, how do you know there two separate jigsaws if you can’t see the picture? If someone asked me to do that I’d say no.’

Sayings and phrases are the badges of idiots and tragically, they wear them with pride.


On another note, starting from tomorrow my stupid collection of short stories will be free. Download them, read them and laugh. Or download them, read them and don’t laugh, or just download them, I don’t care, the stats make me happy. It has 5 stars, customers who also bought it bought The Great Gatsby and that has 4 Stars, meaning my book is better than The Great Gatsby.




Planet Drifting Out of Orbit

Scientists across the globe are showing extreme concern in regards to the latest findings that the planet is slowly drifting further from the sun. A recent scientific study, overseen by scientists, using science has concluded that since Tuesday the Earth has travelled as much as one hundred thousand miles outside of its usual trajectory. If it continues in this manner, we will on the outskirts of the solar system by the end of next week, which will be a bit chilly, it is recommended we all go out and buy woolly hats.

Why this is occurring is as yet unknown, though some hypothesise it is the planet’s natural response to global warming. The cows are in on it, they’re directing their gasses in one concentrated direction, propelling the Earth ever outwards. Once we’re in a safer position we’ll enter our new orbit, increasing the length of the year by two months, which will be nothing but beneficial to the global economy.

Others believe that Earth has grown frustrated with the rest of the solar system, and the fact that unelected officials on Jupiter are imposing cosmic laws upon the rest of us, impeaching individual sovereignty, so therefore is opting to leave. This will only be catastrophic for diplomatic relations and the strength of Earth currency.

Donald Trump however blames Mexico.

Terrorism is another possibility. MI6 claim Isis may have built a giant rocket and is deliberately diverting the course of the planet to cause widespread devastation. An Islamic State Spokesman, John McJohnson has gone on record saying ‘Yes… yes we have done this. Fear us Fear us all.’ But others claim there has yet to be any physical evidence to support this claim. Not even a photograph.

This shift of course, will change the face of the planet’s agriculture. We will have to learn to adapt. The one demographic that will most certainly benefit from this change are the Polar Bears. A polar bear spokesman Felicity Fluffykins had this to say.

“Grr, grrr, rarrr rarr. Grr, grrr grrrrrrrr RAWR!”

Downing Street has urged the public not to go out and panic buy at this stage, which as the general public know, means that we should all go out and panic buy. People are screaming and running around buying as much Monster Much or Anti-frizz Hair product as their arms can carry.

Is this the end of the world… as we know it? Probably, but it’s no worse than before.

Interview With Some Bloke

The title of this piece started off trying to be a literary reference, because if  you’re not actually intelligent, you can throw in a literary reference and trick people into thinking you are. ‘Ooh, he’s read books,’ people say, ‘he must be filled to the brim with wisdom, let’s pierce him with a hot poker and drink the hot wisdom that sprays out.’

I have of course – as I’m sure you’ve already worked out – tweaked the title of an Interview With a Vampire. Which, on the face of it sounds like an interesting interview. But, what I’ve cleverly done is made it an Interview With Some Bloke, which on the face of it sounds mundane. However, I feel compelled to confess that I am a fraud, as I’ve never actually read that book, it never really interested me, I saw the film once. It was recommended to me by a friend. It starred Brad Pitt and Tom Cruise and was shit. I don’t talk to that friend anymore. In short – what I have done is just exploited someone else’s work for my own nefarious ends.

Fortunately, my blog is read by about 5 people, and most of them think it’s a shit film too so I think I’m alright.


As I continually express, when I have nothing else of any value to write (and no longer have access to a scanner so can’t upload doodles), I hate my job, it depresses me, and sucks up the majority of my time and thoughts. People often say in these situations, if you hate your job, you need to start looking for another one. As if it is a simple task. This couldn’t be further from the truth. ‘There’s lots of work out there, if you know where to look.’ People say, as though a job is like a wild animal and if you know it’s habits you’ll know the best places to keep a vigil, rifle in hand. THey don’t offer any advice beyond that.

‘It’s easier if you already have a job.’ Is another thing they say. Who are these people? Fucking idiots that’s who. It’s demonstrably harder, as you have less time and energy to devote to the hunt.

The first hurdle in trying to find a job would be in trying to decide what sort of job you actually want to do. Now, that is a difficult question, perhaps the hardest question in existence. What do you want to do? If answered truthfully, I want to get paid to sleep in a little flying pod, invisible to the rest of the world, but able to peer down upon it unseen, like an all knowing being, but thus far this job has yet to be advertised on the World Wide Web.

I can think of a great deal I don’t want to do. My current job for instance. Giving IT support to people I’ve never met, with not even the slightest interest in IT. I don’t care if their computer gets fixed. They can go fuck themselves. I don’t want to be a marine biologist. It sounds interesting, but I can’t swim very well so all the other marine biologists would ridicule me and my papers wouldn’t be taken seriously. Even if I discovered a new species. I’d like to be a doctor, but from what I can ascertain, it’s far too late for that. I’d need to go back and get some specific A levels, and then get into university again, and then do 5 years. I’ll be dead by then, not to mention I’d have no way to pay my rent in the meantime.

So what am I left with?

Anything to do with… Data.

Data analysis

Data entry

Data management.

Data tickling.

Data moving from that shelf to the other one as the builders will be in soon and they’ll need to get to that wall.

I don’t even know what data is? Not really. Surely it can’t all be the same stuff. And yet each job seems to require the same skills. I am not qualified to do any real job, it’s only the ones that seem to specify, a moderately competent twat lacking in any sort of personality where I seem to fit the bill.

So in order to exchange one job I hate for another one, I got some interviews. They were all telephone interviews, which is kind of weird. It’s difficult enough to sell yourself in person, but you can get bonus points by saying, “look I’m wearing a suit.” You can say that on the phone, but they won’t believe you. Who gets suited up to talk on the phone?

Interview techniques? Are there any? I read somewhere, an employer knows who they want to hire from the first has something to do with the basest of psychology. Confidence perhaps, an innate understanding of another human being that transcends explanation.

Now, this isn’t true. I didn’t read it anywhere, but it’s a provocative statement. My point is, it doesn’t really matter what you say, ultimately, it’s a bit of a lottery. Do you have the precise experience they’re looking for? Do they like your manner? Do they like your choice of words, your name, the fucking school you went too. It doesn’t really matter how you answer the questions.

My technique thus far hasn’t been particularly successful. When asked to describe why I should be hired I tend to be to make the mistake of going for the truth. Instead of unloading some cliches about how driven I am, how much of a team player I can be as well as being a formidable lone wolf (that’s right a team playing loner, a mysterious outsider who wears his heart on his sleeve and demands to be loved, an oxymoron of the highest calibre) or anything of that nature. I tend to say the following:

“Well, let’s be blunt, the job doesn’t exactly require much intellectual capacity. I should be hired because I can do the job, anyone can, but I’m here so why not?”

Doesn’t exactly fill them with confidence. I just hate it. Interviews that is, they are the most insincere moment in our lives. We adopt a facade, not even a convincing one. We become a character everyone hates, but no one more so than ourselves, and that facade often lingers on if you get the job, it becomes your work character, and the more you have to be that work character, the more it leaves traces of it in your bloodstream. Before you know it you’re more this other character than you are you. And you hate yourself for it.

I didn’t get the job.

Fucking interviews.

Fuzzy Rambler

The Meaning of All Existence.

Dear All,

In a moment of madness, I wrote what is effectively an ‘authors note’ to a book that has yet to even be completed or published and probably never will be. Mostly, because I was bored, but also for self-motivation. Please see below for what ended up being a poorly conceived rant, and possibly a course of therapy.


There is a bizarre moment (often multiple moments – sometimes a continuous never ending moment) that all people experience in their lives. That is the what’s the point moment. Of course the question is in itself a pointless one, as it doesn’t really have any meaning behind it, no one is quite sure what they are in fact asking, but they ask it nonetheless. It’s like when people feel the urge to buy a chaise longue, they don’t quite know what they are, but feel they need one in their lives.

What is the point? Well, ultimately there is none. What’s the meaning to life? There is none and there never was. It’s a uniquely human trait to assume there needs to be a meaning to all things. If there was meaning, if there was a purpose or any semblance of order to the universe we wouldn’t have figures like Donald Trump. The world awaits the moment where this strange lump of skin and bigotry drops the façade and laughs. We await the moment this vile sack of shit grins and says “Had you all going for a moment there.”

The only point to our fleeting, unimportant little lives is that we do something worthwhile whilst we can.

But what is worthwhile?


And everything.

Olympic athletes are widely regarded as having ‘done something’ with their lives and made ‘great achievements’, but ultimately all they have done is run round in circles for a bit. They’ve trained for years simply to return to where they started. There’s not even a lemon meringue pie at the end.

Actors are held in fairly high esteem, as they prance about pretending to be other people, mostly people with superpowers these days. Exercise in pointlessness really.

Authors. The written word is regarded as one of the pillars that hold up human civilisation, but do authors not just sit about making shit up? Some times entertaining shit, sometimes thoughtful shit. A lot of the time shit shit. The shittest shit anyone could waste their time doing. The entire teen’s fiction section in any bookshop is largely (and irresponsibly) a massive toilet in which various people are invited to defecate on mass. Endless poorly conceived angst ridden dystopian series in which ‘young adults’ rail against unbelievable figures of authority, but ultimately feel that the question “does the really attractive boy/girl” like me is more important than overthrowing tyranny. The most on the nose metaphor for puberty ever. Very on the nose.

But… it is all worthwhile. All of it, for those involved. For those that partake. Anything that makes you feel. Anything that makes being alive feel like an endeavour worth pursuing, is worthwhile.

Was there any point to this?


Was it worthwhile?

Of course not.


I’m not sure I understand the question.

Good Evening Fellow Human… I Appreciate Your Appearance


Through reading these letters you are connecting yourself with me. Just by rolling your eyes over these words

Meaningless words.

you are forming a bond with me, that given the right circumstances might be stronger than that between lovers. Between the best of friends.

Or is that too deep for a Monday evening? Is that the pretentious ramblings of an alcohol fuelled fool?

I don’t know, but I have some poems for you if you’re interested. If you’re not. then what are you still doing here?

Imagine if I was a duck. How cool would that be?

I’d go…. Quack! QUACK!

But I would not quack a third time, as that would just be silly. I’d likely be shot, or disenfranchised from the duck and poultry community.

anyway, poem the first.


One day, far in the future,

I may look back and


maybe, just maybe, at this moment

I was on the


of happiness.


And in my idleness I’ll discover

that ecstasy comes not just from

a lover.

it comes from another

just willing

……………………………to be.


With all their intricacies and

complexities, they feel completely

at ease.

just being.


and one day far in the future

I’ll look back

and wonder why I didn’t

just be. Why I tried so hard

not to be me just to see

if you’d still be.


but at least I will know

even if I didn’t show

that I was very close

……………… so close.

to being happy.



There that was nice wasn’t it? No? Everyone’s a critic these days.


Imagine being all alone. In the world, imagine if everyone disappeared. That’d be quite nice wouldn’t it? I could sleep all day then without people poking me with sticks and telling me to do things. I wouldn’t have to pretend to care about people and their problems, and problems and their people.

Hah, remember that time when I said imagine if I was a duck?


this poem is called BORED.




I’mbored! Bored bored bored bald

hah, I just said bald, bald. imagine being bald

imagine saying bald.


sometimes you can say  words so  many times they lose all meaning.

like I Love You.

I hate you.



I’m so fucking bored.


There. That was some improv poetry, but there’s no way of proving that is there? Was it off the cuff poetry? or was it meticulously planned? You shall never know.

the greatest trick the Devil pulled …

….. was this really good one where he made it look like his head fell off… but it didn’t. Was pretty cool though.






The Joke World.

I haven’t posted in a while. I would like to say that it is because I have been doing important or exciting things. Generally living life to it’s full. I cannot. What I have in fact been doing is spending a lot of time in bed trying to come up with a suitable reason for getting out of said bed. I was eventually coerced to join the ranks of the living once again by a madman that said he’d hoover my face off if I didn’t. I don’t like hoovers, they are loud and intrusive. Anyway, in my lethargy I wrote a joke of sorts. Like all things, it swiftly got out of hand. I hope future generations will see it as the most longwinded joke ever.

It is entitled.

The Joke World: Three Blokes.

Three blokes walk into a bar.

They were of various nationalities if that’s funnier.

One orders a beer, another a glass of wine, the third orders a Spanish Galleon filled with Prosecco.  On the way to find a seat they pass a horse with a long face, he looks pissed off, so they decide not to engage in banter, he was clearly there to drink in quiet solitude.

They eventually find a place in a corner, nearby there was an elderly man nursing a pint of Bitter, underneath his chair sat an extremely shaggy dog that looked prone to bouts of excessive narration. The three nameless blokes sat at their table in silence, save for the occasional slurp of a drink or the dramatic warbling of a nearby fruit machine, being played by an intellectually incompetent blonde.

They all exchanged awkward glances that were in parts exasperated, angry and altogether dejected. There was a sense of comradeship between them, despite the fact that they were, all three of them, entirely aware that their relationship was based on some form of elusive punchline. They often found themselves in the same pub, surrounded by the same familiar faces, occasionally having to bypass an elephant.

They listened to the conversations occurring around them. “what do you call a… How many… joke joke joke joke.”  It was all rather false sounding, and the smiles of the speakers appeared to be strained and were not reflected in the eyes.

It was strange that not one of them had started speaking yet; usually words would start tumbling out of one of their mouths, with a strange musical sort of rhythm. Often they’d set up a scenario, allowing someone else to leap in with an oh so hilarious response. It seemed tonight just wasn’t a particularly funny night. The jokes were old, there had been perhaps too much laughter throughout the ages.

‘If I had a name it’d be something like Dave.’ Said one with a painful sort of wince.

‘Dave… that’s boring.’ Responded the other, who had bright ginger hair.

‘I know,’ said the Man That Would Be Dave, ‘I’ve never even been to Scotland.’ He said rubbing at his over large forehead.

Their spontaneous conversation was beginning to draw the attention of others, who looked at them with angry, judgmental sort of eyes.  Even the surrealists in the corner, playing their game of giant snap, only they had snakes for arms, were slowing in their inane babble turning their attention to the dull conversation occurring nearby.

‘I think I wanted to be a lawyer when I was younger… but it’s difficult to remember that far back.’ Said the one drinking a Galleon of Prosecco, he was clearly more inebriated than his companions.

‘That’s not particularly funny.’ Said the ginger haired one. There was  some angry muttering from the other patrons, apart from the horse, who looked at them with a nod of support.  His horsey face seemed to say ‘go on… it’s not funny but it’s real.’  The poor fellow hadn’t been the same since discovering most of his friends had been turned into lasagnes or cheap burgers.

‘Didn’t really lend itself to one liners,’ the Prosecco drinker sniffed, ‘I was then pushed towards being a doctor… except… except I didn’t have the patience.’ At this he broke down into tears, silent shuddering sobs shaking his body.

‘Excuse me lads.’ They all turned to see the barman, his white apron, his rotund body and his balding head. ‘I’m afraid that unless this is the build-up to something amazing I’m going to have to ask you to leave.’

They all knew what leave meant. The Gallows awaited all that were forced to leave, they would have to move into the realms of  the dark and the sick, filled with the corpses of babies flung to paint houses, men carved into slices of various thicknesses for bathroom tiles or long dead celebrities. They had to think fast, they did this several times a week, they should be able to pull something out of the bag. Why not claim to be metahumour? Or an anti-joke? Surely they could claim they were being so unfunny that it was funny, subverting the entire situation.  They exchanged desperate glances, each one too aware that they had nothing. They had no energy left, no spark… nothing.

‘Isn’t life the ultimate joke?’ said the Man That Would Be Dave.

‘No.’ said the Barman, and the three men were instantly decapitated.

Humour continued as normal.