This blog courtesy of Writer Brendan

You need many things to succeed in show biz. A combination of luck and talent. The desire to perform. Compromising photos of various producers. What also helps is a kickass name.

You've got to have something memorable. For example, 'Norma Jean Mortenson' is certainly that, but for all the wrong reasons. It's only when Ms Mortenson became Marilyn Monroe that people really started paying attention. It's a great name for a star - 'Marilyn' sounds like someone glamorous. 'Norma' sounds like she should be taking trash out to the bins round the back of a diner.

Anyway, this is all a roundabout way of getting round to talking about someone who obviously hadn't thought about what title would look good on posters or draw in a crowd. This person really hasn't a clue when it comes to advertising themselves because the moniker they'd chosen for themselves was...

Magic Dave.

Ooh, sounds exciting, doesn't he? I bet the punters are really going to flock to see him in Vegas.

Seriously, Magic Dave? That's the least exciting bit of branding since Jif became Cif. You can't simply stick a word related to your act to your name. Do I go around calling myself Laughs Brendan? No, because that would be idiotic. Also, it reads like an out of order stage direction. Magic Dave is not a good name. You can't call yourself 'Magic', you have to earn that description.

Also, 'Dave'. Dave, like Norma, isn't exactly a name you expect to see up in lights. On the chalk board to next play snooker perhaps, but not one you'd see above the theatre doors. Believe me, David Copperfield would not sell as many tickets if he was billed as 'Dave'. Dave is not a magician, it's a TV channel of blokey shows. If you're going to stick to being known as Dave, your repartee better be pretty funny. If it's not, I certainly won't be Laughs Brendan.

I came up with this title all by myself.

Well, I'm done. I asked for people to give me a title, and they did. I got ten great prompts, and so was able to produce ten great stories. Some, despite their titles (few would have thought Blu-tack would have been hinted towards a break up) were downbeat, others were out and out silly. Surprisingly, one reader found the fate of the naked role rat to be both. Each to their own, I suppose. In the end though, it was a useful exercise all round that allowed me to include a bit of everything from talking animals and topical figures to foodstuff and street signs. I will definitely do this again. Until then, I'll put down my pad, take a break, and go enjoy the simple things in life, like a good meal or a sunrise.

Thanks to everyone who contributed a title. Without you, I'd be sat just waiting for ideas.

Silver Dollar Sunrise

Staring into the campfire, I wonder if it has all been worth it. Was it really a smart move to leave Mary, little Zeke, and a house full of comforts to come out here and pan for gold? After all, all I get is a couple of silver dollars a week. Sure, there’s promise of more if we find something nice and shiny of course, but so far I’ve been sieving nothing but plain ole rocks. Oh well, at least the sunrises around here are spectacular. Honestly, they’re beautiful. I like to think of them as my reward for getting up.

Every time I rise in the morning, that big flame ball that we call the sun is peeping up over the horizon as if checking that I’m awake. Once he’s ascertained I’m up and about, he slowly flies into the sky, ready to redden my cheeks and lighten my hair throughout the day. Naturally, he’s hot as well, but swinging pickaxes into mountains was already a strain without him coming along and making us sweat, so I try not to resent him for that too much. Besides, I know that soon he’ll be retreating and I’ll get to go to bed. It’s the perfect arrangement.

There are times I think about leaving here though. Someday I will probably just chuck it in and return to Mary and little Zeke. I miss them, but right now, for the moment anyway, I know I would miss those silver dollar sunrises even more. Until that changes then, my life is going to be just me, Mr Sun, and a mountain load of rocks, and that sounds pretty good to me.

Butts Wynd

Jamie leads me round a corner. He giggles all the way.
‘What? What? What’s so funny? Where are you taking me?’, I ask.
Jamie laughs.
‘Oh, you’ll see.’
We run across the high street, then down a steep hill. Jamie stops to catch his breath, and then we’re off again. Eventually we stop outside an alley.
‘Here we are’, says Jamie, laughing.
‘What am I meant to be looking at?’
There’s nothing here. Jamie points.
‘The street sign.’
What? I turn around and I see it. BUTTS WYND.
‘Yeah, so?’
‘It’s funny, isn’t it?’
‘Why, because it contains the word ‘butts’?’
‘Yeah. And ‘wind’.’
‘I see. You do know the origin behind this place name, don’t you?’
‘No. Why, do you?’
‘Sure. Dad told me. Wanna hear it?’
‘Okay.’
I clear my throat loudly and somewhat overdramatically.
‘Right. Well, Tobias Butts was a Roman foot soldier who, pretty much by accident, ended up leading the legion to victory in the Battle of Badoink. He’d just been messing around, trying on his commander’s helmet, when someone mistook him for the actual leader. The real one was probably elsewhere, I don’t know, peeing behind a tree.
Anyway, rather than admit that he was an ordinary soldier playing a bit of dress up, he, out of fear of being found out, gave the men their orders. Luckily, it turns out that Butts had got wind of the enemy’s position via eavesdropping, and it was this knowledge that meant the plan of attack he formulated won them the Battle of Badoink.’
By now, Jamie is sat captivated and open-mouthed.
‘Wow… Is that true? Is that why the street’s called Butt’s Wynd?’
‘Course not’, I scoff, ‘some builders probably wrote up some graffiti by mistake. Come on, let’s go home.’
Helping him up, I laughed at the ridiculous notion that Butts Wynd could ever me named after an actual person or an actual butt when suddenly there was a low rumble below us. A burst of gas wafts in from nowhere. Now, I’m not entirely sure what it was, but it smelt distinctly like…
Farts.

In with Anger, Out with Love

Today, I hate you.

I BURN ALL OF YOUR CLOTHES.

I SHRED ALL OF YOUR PHOTOS.

I WISH YOU WOULD DIE…

Tomorrow, who knows? I might regret this or feel strangely at ease. That’s what’s so fun about being in a relationship.

Please don’t sue me.

The Naked Mole Rat New Testament

St Peter was pretty sure he’d never seen an arrival quite like it. As he peered over his desk, he could swear he was looking at what appeared to be a penis with teeth. Not only that, but it was accompanied by a tiny book. Eventually it spoke – the penis that is, not the book.

‘Is this Heaven?’

St Peter looked around at the pearly gates, the angels beyond them, and the clouds under their feet, and decided not to dignify this with a response. The talking phallus, met with this frosty silence, tried again.

‘Am I dead?’

Now, this was a query to which the answer wasn’t always apparent, so Peter nodded.

‘Excellent!’ The little pink thing started to do a celebratory dance. St Peter stopped it.

‘Sorry, why is your demise something worth celebrating?’

‘Because it means I can bring you our book, of course.’

‘“Our”? “Book”? What are you talking about?’

‘I’m here to bring you a new version of the Bible. A new New Testament if you will.’

‘I see. And you bring this on behalf of who?’

‘The naked mole rats.’

‘What’s that – some sort of punk band?’

‘Nope. We’re burrowing creatures from Africa.’

‘Right. God must have created you on one of his off-days. Come on then, let’s see this Bible of yours.’

St Peter picked up the creature’s book.

‘So what exactly have you put in this new New Testament? You haven’t changed much, I hope.’

‘Uh, well, we’ve, er, altered the odd commandment.’

‘You changed some of the instructions laid down directly from God?'

‘Yeah.’

‘Which ones?’

‘Well, er, adultery. That’s gone. We reason we’re so ugly that it’s a miracle anyone will shag us, so why keep that to the confines of marriage?’

‘Right. What did you replace that with – “thou shall shag around”?’

‘No, of course not – that’s what we put in place of ‘thou shall not kill’. No, instead of adultery, we wrote ‘thou shall not wear clothes or grow fur.’

‘Why?’

‘Well, we’re naked mole rats, aren’t we? We’re meant to stay nude.’

‘You can’t grow fur.’

‘Exactly. That’s why it’s in the rules.’

‘No, I mean it’s impossible for you to do it, so there’s no need to ban it. It’s never going to happen.’

‘Oh… still, better safe than sorry.’

‘Better safe than – forget it. Is that all you guys have changed?’

‘Yeah. Ah, no, actually we might have changed Jesus to a mole rat.’

‘Why?’

‘Well, how else are we going to get the kids to read it?’

St Peter glares at the creature, who, despite this, continues talking nonetheless.

‘So, when can we get this published?’

‘When Hell freezes over.’

‘Great! And when will that be exactly?’

St Peter kicks the mole rat off the cloud.

‘You’ll have to go find out for yourself.’

The Glow in the Dark Ladybird

‘Dave?’
‘Yeah?’
‘What’s that over there?’
‘Where?’
‘By the cabbages. That fluorescent thing.’
‘That?’
‘Yeah.’
‘It’s just the Glow In The Dark Ladybird.’
‘Of course.’
‘Why, what did you think it was?’
‘A very very small torch.’
‘Ah. Now, that is stupid.’
‘Tell me about it…’