Home Sweet Home

In September, my mum moved house. No big deal, right? People relocate every day! I’ve changed address four times in as many years. This occasion is a little different though. In September, my mum moved out of my childhood home.

Now, I prefer to look forward, not back (an approach which has ensured I don’t repeat my college feat of power walking into a lamppost). I am not one for nostalgia. Consequently, I can’t tell you what my earliest memory is (although that might have something to do with said lamppost).

It would be ridiculous though for me to have lived in the same village for twenty-two years and not have a single thing to recall about life there. After all, Peter Tavy was the backdrop to so many firsts for me. My first stand up gig was at the local variety night, my first job was at the pub, and my first pet tore into the neighbourhood’s shrubbery. Admittedly I can’t remember the latter but I’m reliably informed that Thumper was as violent as his moniker suggested and nowhere near as adorable as his Disney namesake.

Whilst I may never have finished learning how to drive around Peter Tavy’s narrow winding lanes and tight bends, I did explore all other forms of transport here (except, much to my mother’s consternation, the weekly bus into town). I have skateboarded down my hill, rollerbladed outside the village hall, sledged down my neighbour’s snowy banks, and blissfully floated around a river on a big black rubber ringer whilst chased by adults desperately trying to stop me from drifting out to sea. Ah, happy days.

Typical family photo.

I spent two decades in this eccentric little village and, as a result, have grown into an eccentric little man. It’s not hard to see why. Only in Peter Tavy could I have walked around a drained Mill Pond. Only in Peter Tavy could I have been followed by a cat called Smudge whenever I headed out to wonder in the woods. Only in Peter Tavy could I have been enlisted to play a Dalek. Twice.

I perform in London now but my first crowds were back in Devon. I danced all evening at Harford Bridge for them. They provided my first heckles (but fair enough, I admit the village quiz we Way boys wrote was alternatively too difficult and too easy).

And at this point, we come full circle to my first first. If I had to pick a key formative moment that sums up the fun of Peter Tavy life, it would be my inaugural spot as a comedian. That night in January 2009 was my first truly solo turn. Previously I’d written and performed humourous skits with my siblings but now I was to be onstage on my own.


Yes, another snowy scene. I only have access to Winter pics, okay?

I was waiting backstage ahead of my debut. The only other people with me were my previous collaborators AKA Kit and Joe. I’ve no idea why they were there but it’s great they were because they helped me relieve my nerves in the most novel way. We had a sword fight.

In retrospect, the clacking of wooden sabres would have no doubt been heard (we were, after all, only a wall away from the audience) but it really helped provide a welcome distraction from my imminent display of mediocre gags. This moment of silliness combines so many elements I love – family, joking around, and a good show. All of these are qualities I associate with Peter Tavy.

So yes, I may have to learn a new address and phone number but I won’t forget the old ones. They will remain as much a part of me as the former farm that was our home and the village which was occasionally the recipient of our post because our family name makes us sound like streets.

How, then, to sign off this farewell to my village? Well, as well as refraining from reminiscing, I’m also not particularly emotionally articulate so I’ll just keep it simple. Thank you, Mr Peter Tavy.

Can't Stay, Must-tache.

It’s ironic that, for the last few decades at least, the way teenagers have chosen to change their appearance in order to not conform has remained the same. People hit adolescence and how do they mark this significant momentous time of their life? By getting a tattoo, having something pierced, or doing mad things with their hair. My parents and their generation did it, and now my lot are too. Indeed, this summer, not wanting to waste this opportunity in which you have licence to go a little crazy, I too did something pretty radical: I grew a moustache.

Now, this may not sound particularly exciting or adventurous, but bear in mind that I’m a punctual nice middle class boy who used to play Badminton over the washing line in the back garden – this is the closest to rebelling or acting out I will ever get. Narcotics and motor bikes have no appeal to me and I’d rather have a little bit of cider on a Sunday afternoon picnic than go out and drink loads on a Saturday night. Trust me, it’s surprising that I’d even attempt to picture what I’d look like with a bit of facial fluff, let alone actually grow some.

Another reason I wanted to try it out though was that, since birth, I more or less have rocked the same look I always have: dark wide eyes, thick eyebrows, and a thin mop of brown hair. This means my appearance has not changed since 1992. Consequently, even though I’m twenty, I frequently get asked for ID in bars (yes, I do go to some occasionally; I’m a student. It’s what we do). A moustache would stop this happening by ageing me up a few years. For this alone, it would be worth it.

Of course, before it’s fully grown, the little straggly patches of hair above my upper lip actually create the opposite effect by making me look even more like an adolescent who’s not yet mature enough to be eating with the grownups. Alas, this is just an obligatory stage you have to go through on the path to true moustacedom.

Except mine never really filled in in the middle. Yes, I had two distinct fuzzy stripes under my nostrils, but they never met up and merged into one. I had the sort of moustache a top-hatted villain with a cape would be proud to twirl in a Victorian melodrama. No wonder a friend of mine said it made me look like the creepy cousin of Super Mario Brothers’ Luigi.

Not all of the responses to the new addition to my face were negative though. A couple of my pals liked it. One even remarked that it made me look as if I’d finally gone through puberty. Result! That’s exactly what I wanted.

It never really felt like mine though. Having lived so long with a naked face (so to speak), it was strange to see my moustache each morning in the mirror. To me, it didn’t look like it was attached, but merely floating above my skin. Conversely, when I finally shaved it off to officially mark the end of my summer holiday, upon seeing my old visage after so many months, I was struck by how much space there is between my nose and my lip.

That’s the beauty of rebelling by growing a moustache, I guess – it’s so easy to get rid of. Whilst piercings have to close up, tattoos only come off with lasers, and head hair gradually reverts to its natural colour and shape in a matter of weeks, a bit of face fur can be taken off in a couple of minutes. It also doesn’t take too long to regrow either…

Yes, that’s right, I haven’t ruled out bringing it back. Until I decide whether I will though, I’m happy to look younger than I am. I’m an actor, after all. With a face like mine, I can play young punks into my forties and enact the type of pubescent hijinks I’ve previously avoided. Not only then can I have my cake and eat it too, I can have it whilst staying up way past my bedtime because that’s how wild I am. After all, in my youth, I grew a moustache.

Friday the 5/13th of November

Ah, Friday the 5/13th. The day I realised my calendar had several typos. Also, the day my dog died. I mainly remember the 5/13th for the first thing though - my memory's weird like that.

Anyway, I'd come downstairs, stepped over Rover's corpse, and glanced at my Daily Fake Fact calendar (today's - 'despite his name suggesting otherwise, Guy Fawkes was not, in fact, a guy.') because I wanted to know how long it was until Mumday (thanks to some cockup at the printers,  my wall planner says weeks begin every Mumday).

I was looking forward to Mumday as months ago I'd bought Bustin' Jeeber tickets. Not so I could go though - for some reason the idea of having a whiny racist haircut pout at me for three hours didn't appeal -  no, I wanted to ensure others couldn't. Hence why I'd snapped up every last one. Parents everywhere would be frantically appealing to scalpers and overpriced sites so they could try get some for their tweens but to no avail. At ten o clock on Mumday, Jeeber would be playing to an empty stadium.

Amused by this thought, I looked back at the calendar. Preoccupied by both imagining the look on Bustin''s face and reading the faux Fawkes fact, I'd completely forgotten to register today's date.

Friday the 5/13th of November.

Okay... This could mean several things.

1) Today is Friday 5th November.

2) Today is Friday 13th November.

3) Today, Friday, is only five thirteenths of November (unlikely).

4) Today is actually neither Friday, the fifth or thirteenth, because the calendar is completely wrong (very likely).

I decided to get a second opinion.

'What day is it, Dad?'

'Tuesday.'

'The...'

'The... day after Mumday?'

I sighed. He'd been really into bad jokes since he'd fallen down the stairs.

'What number day is it?'

'Right! It's the ninth.'

'Thank you.'

I went to put my hand in the toaster (I hadn't got anything to retrieve from there - I just wanted to see what it was like to perform exploratory surgery on a robot) but then stopped short of dipping it in.

'Hang on. Tuesday ninth?'

'Yep.'

'Tuesday the ninth of November?'

'Sure is. You need me to write it down?'

'No, that's fine.'

The concert was scheduled to take place on Mumday the eighth. Did that mean -

I flung open the kitchen curtains. Outside, houses burned, cars had been flipped, and posters bearing the smug punchable visage of Jeeber had been ripped down from every lamppost. Evidently the news there was no room in the concert hadn't gone down too well...

'Uh, son?' Dad beckoned me over to the table.

'Yeah?'

'Can you explain this?' He held up his copy of the morning paper. On the front page was a picture of me. Apparently hell hath no fury like a Bustin' fan denied and they'd managed to trace all the tickets back to my server. Oh crap...

That totally reminds me - Friday the 5/13th of November is also the day I had to change my identity and skip town for fear of being torn apart by an angry mob! I'd completely forgotten. As I said (or maybe I didn't), my memory's weird like that...

In The Murder Room

'In the Murder Room, you can make a killing. No pun intended. I hate puns and will wallop anyone if they do something even resembling a double entendre.

No, believe me, the Murder Room is no joke. It's where despicable killers such as moi bump off those too cowardly to off themselves themselves - for the right cash of course. We couldn't let you leave the world for free now, could we? That would be unfair to all the sadsacks with the stones to sit in their car with windows up and the engine on.

Now, obviously ultimately your God or Gods will pass verdict on you but that sure as Hell won't stop me judging you when you're alive, so - '

'Why are you telling me all this?'

'Because, sonny, I'm obliged to give you this spiel lest you misunderstand what the deal is here. That way, if your demise is traced back to us - which it won't be cos we're thorough - we can hold our hands up and go 'hey, we knew full well what the game was; we gave him the speech'.'

'That won't hold up in court.'

'Course it will. We've got tapes as proof.'

'You record the killing?'

'What? No! We're executioners, not perverts. We only film the preamble.'

'I see. Well, I think I've heard all I need to.'

'Great.'

'You're under arrest. I'm D.C.I. Harry Strong and I'm bringing you in on multiple charges of premeditated murder.'

'Hey, it's only premeditated because they asked us to do it!'

'That's a technicality. Our lawyers will soon find a way round that.'

'Unbelievable...'

'Not really. You boast about your chopping block job long enough, you get caught. What's hard to understand about that?'

'You'll regret this.'

'I'll regret this? You're the one in the risky business of mutilating people. Seriously, talk about going out on a limb...'

'Did you just do wordplay?'

'Why, you allergic to linguistic tricks?'

'Nope. I just really hate puns. And do you remember what I do to people who crack them?'

'Uh...'

He hit the ground before he could even blink. I picked up my phone and dialled.

'Oi, Terry? I've got another one for you. He's heard the speech and is definitely up for it. Be here in five minutes? Ta.'

I love my job...

The House of Gross Acquaintance

'You don't have to live up to your name, you know', I said carefully wading through the mess in search of a clean patch of carpet, 'That nominative determination thing is a load of bollocks'.

Gross smirked. 'Yeah, but you would say that, wouldn't you, Woodcock? Don't want people to think you've Pinocchio's nose instead of man meat.'

'I don't want them to think I've a nose or meat down there. I'm a girl!'

'Oh.' He pulled his greasy hair out of his eyes. 'Sorry Holly.'

I stopped and leaned on a fairly staple pile of newspapers. 'My name is Poppy.'

He waved a dismissive hand. 'Eh, doesn't matter. If my name was Gross Best Friend, maybe I'd bother to remember, but it's not, so I don't.'

'You can't keep using your name as an excuse for everything, Gross.'

'Can't I?' He sneezed, farted, then belched. 'Huh, what do you know? Looks like I can.'

'That's it!' I turned around and carefully started to make my way to the front door.

'Wait - what - where are you going?'

'I'm getting a hoover and a hose! From now on, at the very least, your house will be clean.'

'No!'

'Yes. I'm doing it and you can't stop me. If you try, I'll spray you with the hose.'

He hissed. 'You wouldn't...'

'I would.'

We glared at each other. Eventually he threw his hands up in the air. 'Fine. Go ahead. Clean my place.'

'I will do. And Gross?'

'Yes?'

'We are no longer acquaintances.'

The Skylight

When I have nothing better to do, I lie on my bed and look up at my skylight. I've watched rain fall, lightning illuminate the sky, and snowflakes slide down the pane, but mostly my ever-changing canvas shows clouds.

Clouds are odd. I wouldn't classify them as their own weather condition but rather as a transitional state. You cannot go from a sunny day to a storm without it having being overcast in between. The white wisps above act as a signal for us to move indoors, a warning that what we knew is, for now at least, over.

It was you who first taught me to look up and start appreciating the world outside my bubble. Beforehand I was very much stuck in the city mind-set: stare ahead, don't interact, and if someone asks you a question, they must be after your phone. Now I see everything anew. Anything can be amazing.

And then you left. Having converted me to your way of thinking, you went to preach to another. I struggled to find solace in the small things for a while but then one day whilst in the garden I looked up. I saw one small solitary cloud and then it hit me: what I'm feeling is temporary. This mood, like a cloud, will pass. Once it's rolled away, normal service will be resumed. The sun will come out.

To remind me of this very fact, I ordered a skylight for my room.

A (Probably Not At All Much-Anticipated) Sequel

Almost two whole years ago, I asked friends to provide me with titles for stories. Would I give them one per cent of the royalties if I made money off of the pieces? It was never discussed.

Anyway, they gave me suggestions that were evocative, intriguing, or just plain silly and I turned them all into stories. This year, to mark National Flash Fiction Day, I decided to repeat the game and consequently have a few new works to share very soon.

The first one will be up within sixty minutes and they will continue to be posted every hour on the hour until you bring the money in full to the prearranged location.

*Ahem*.

Apologies, wrong forum. Correction: They will go up until I've run out.

TIHSPITFOAL: Barcelona Edition!

I went to Barcelona and saw...


A terrible attempt at the Micky Mouse silhouette



 The wrong sort of buoy

 A lizard having a breakdown

A winning combination

A shop with a very specific item for sale

and the Tenth Doctor missing half his head. No wonder he was so mopey.

That's so Nineties.

I went through my childhood bedroom and found...


BERT REALLY LET HIMSELF GO AFTER ERNIE LEFT

I DO THE MOST ABSTRACT SNOWFLAKES

THE GHOST OF SOOTY

MY MOTHER WAS A GIANT

LIVING IN A RURAL VILLAGE DIDN'T HELP ME IDENTIFY ANIMALS

FICTION DOESN'T HAVE TO BE PLAUSIBLE

KEEPING UP WITH TECHNOLOGY WAS NEVER MY PRIORITY

PIKACHU'S 'BEFORE' AND 'AFTER' WEIGHT LOSS SHOTS

AND...

THE HORROR, THE HORROR...

A Queue for Disaster

Whilst working in a canteen, a customer asked me whether it mattered which end of the line was the beginning. Whilst this is an innocuous enough enquiry, it betrays a fundamental misunderstanding of how queues work. We Brits invented queues because there’s nothing we like more than order, politely taking turns, and insisting someone else go first. The result? We disregard which end is the head and which is the tail, and we would have complete anarchy.

If who’s at the front is irrelevant, then it would come down to who shouts the loudest. There would be pushing and shoving to ensure you are heard and others are muffled. Fights would ensue and workers would struggle to break them up given that we will do almost anything if there’s a decent cup of tea up for grabs (or, in fact, any tea. We’re not picky unless it’s the Americans’ idea of a brew in which case “I’m fine for now, thanks”).

Said workers would, perhaps unsurprisingly, need time off for the stress brought on by seeing forty day trippers kick each other in the shins to stop some stranger get the last Earl Grey. Replacements would be drafted in but soon their shifts would need covering too as once more the lack of a queue results in fisticuffs. It’s an endless cycle that would admittedly solve the national unemployment crisis by providing literally everyone in the country with a job but soon we would all be on paid leave. Either that or we’d be in what should be a queue.

With the entire nation getting compensation whilst off work, the economy collapses. There’s mass layoffs – our employers can’t keep giving us pay-outs. We go to the dole – there’s no money there either. All you have now? That’s what you have to live on. It runs out and you have to steal in order to survive.

Don’t worry though – the police won’t stop you. No, remember, they were laid off too (besides, no one has faith in them anymore – they couldn’t even stop fights in queues). You can do what you want if you can get away fast enough. In a world without law enforcers, the quick are more powerful than the rich.

If you can’t evade others though, you’re going to get injured. Unfortunately, given that hospitals are out of action too (if you thought the competition was heated for a cup of tea, imagine how intense it was between those needing a kidney), you’ll have to stay hurt. For some, this risk is too much so they never leave their house. Others take a chance and end up limping for life. Nobody wins.

Civilisation ends. It would. If everyone is potentially going to take your supplies, nobody has allies. Acquaintances don’t become friends, friends don’t end up as couples, couples don’t start families together. The human race dies out and all because we abolished the rules of queuing.

I didn’t tell the customer all of this of course. No, I just pointed out she was at the wrong end and went back to work. They don’t pay me to stand around you know…

G, that is a Good Question.

In 2013, I produced Simple As ABD, a podcast in which each edition featured questions based around one letter of the alphabet. I never got past F. However, I did prepare the scripts for a further three episodes. These are just some of the questions you would have heard if I had done Episode G.

GAGA - Have you ever been pursued by the pa pa pa pa paparazzi?

GALAXY - Star Wars is set in a galaxy far far away. Why don't more movies take place on chocolate bars?

GARDENING - If you have green fingers, why don't you go to the doctor?

GEOGRAPHY - Where am I?

GIFT - If it's the thought that counts, can I get away with saying I thought about getting you a present?

GOOFY - One of Mickey Mouse's pals is a dog and he also owns a dog. Which is his best friend?

GRAVITY - Doesn't it get you down?

GREAT-GRANDPARENTS - Are your grandparents great?

GUERRILLA WARFARE - When will the monkeys take over?

These Questions are The (H) Bomb!

In 2013, I produced Simple As ABD, a podcast in which each edition featured questions based around one letter of the alphabet. I never got past F. However, I did prepare the scripts for a further three episodes. These are just some of the questions you would have heard if I had done Episode H.

HEAVEN - Is a gay nightclub in London your idea of Heaven?

HELLO - Is it me you're looking for?

HALIBUTS - Do fish have butts?

HAMMERHEAD - Where are the sharks that look like nails?

HENS - Are you chicken?

HILL - Have you ever climbed up Harry Hill?

HOGWASH - Have you ever scrubbed a pig?

HOLY - Ever worshipped holy cheese?

HUMMINGBIRD - Do birds stink?

I spy with my little I - questions!

In 2013, I produced Simple As ABD, a podcast in which each edition featured questions based around one letter of the alphabet. I never got past F. However, I did prepare the scripts for a further three episodes. These are just some of the questions you would have heard if I had done Episode I.

ILLEGAL - Ever seen a sick bird?

IMAGINE - Imagine no John Lennon. It's easy if you try.

IMMORTAL - I'm going to live forever. I'm going to learn how to fly. Are you...

IMPOSSIBLE - How many impossible missions does Tom Cruise have to do before it's no longer impressive?

INCOGNITO - Where in the world is Cognito?

INSOMNIA - Do you think Al Pacino loses sleep over any of his films?

INNUENDO - Making euphemisms - is it hard?

ABD was Not So Simple

In 2013, I started Simple As ABD, a podcast with a simple aim - each episode would consist of conversations based on questions starting with one letter of the alphabet*. The first show would be about A, the second B, and so on. Could I get all the way to Z?

Well, it turns out No.

I only did one block of six. Those editions, which cover A to F, together run for almost four and a half hours. The unabridged sessions are so much longer. It turns out that the show structure was too free which meant each recording essentially ran until we were tired. I'm proud of what I produced - it gave me a chance to have some of my favourite people back for some frivolous fun - but, when some of my dream guests couldn't make time to do the next series, I had no problem with stopping the show.

A few months later, I started A Way Day. It's just me at a mic doing two and a half minutes of topical jokes. I can go from writing to uploading in the space of a few hours. I get three out a week. It's far less work than Simple As ABD and it's very different to what I've done before, but I'm enjoying it.


*If that sounds familiar, yes, it's basically QI. I made sure to include a running joke in my introductions that rubbished my own programme and conceded theirs was far superior.

Love Is - A Poem

Love is wanting to hold hands.

Love is being extraordinarily excited to see your best friend.

Love is knowing it's good to share.

Love is basically like being seven.

A review of 'TOY STORY' (but not the one you're thinking of)

The year was 1997. I was but a boy who loved a certain hit animation film. It inspired me to make my acting début. That performance wasn't reviewed but if it had been, it would have definitely sounded a bit like this...

When reflecting on this production and the début of its young star, Brendan Way, the first word that springs to mind is ‘Nepotism’. The show is rife with it. For instance, said performer, apparently unsatisfied with simply playing the lead role (that of all-American hero, Sheriff Woody) also took it upon himself to direct and write the piece as well. Not only that, he cast his relatives and toys in the rest of the other roles. His parents have parts. His stuffed animals have parts. Even his brothers – including one who is barely a year old, have parts. This version of hit animation Toy Story then, if it wasn’t already obvious, is very much a family affair. This indulgent creative decision would not matter however if the play, an adaption of the picture book of the film, was any good. Alas the script (which is, a reliable source informs me, for no clear reason, written in large red font) reads like it has been, and indeed probably was, copied out verbatim. As for the acting, well, whoever said one should never work with animals or children was today never proven so right. The baby, for one, rarely looked focused and at some points might even have gone to sleep.

This of course brings us to our star. Having neglected to allow his ensemble the luxury of a rehearsal, he splits his stage time between reading his lines (it seems none of the company bothered to memorise a single syllable of their speech) and running the show. His first foray into the limelight as a result is hard to judge as he never is fully “on”. Saying that, and not taking into consideration his relative youth (he is only five after all), based on this display of so-called “talent” alone, I would advise he give up and go home. Luckily, given that this one-off took place in his lounge, he doesn’t have far to go. 2/5 stars. Would not recommend.