Dead Drunk Detective: How I Wrote Series One

Every year since 2016, I have written a new series of Dead Drunk Detective, my comedy zombie noir podcast. We usually release shows across October in the run-up to Halloween. However, there are no original episodes this year. You know why.

In lieu of fresh instalments of the zombie sleuth's adventures, I thought I would look back at the first four years. Instead of sharing new episodes, I will revisit the old. 

I do not know what form this will take. It could be personal essays. More likely, it will be episode guides akin to the ones I wrote about my sporadic podcast, The Booth. Whatever I plump for, it is obvious what I must cover first: the origin story.

Dead Drunk Detective is proof that you find a use for all your creative ideas eventually.

The first episode was written on a whim while I was at university, probably in the space of an afternoon and partly because I wanted to see if I could construct a solvable puzzle. My model was the pun-filled parodies which ended each edition of I’m Sorry I Haven’t a Clue (their inspiration can also be seen in the closing ‘well, since you asked me for a story…’ segments of John Finnemore’s Souvenir Programme). I often wrote little adventures like these for no reason other than it was fun and had previously started short radio spoofs of Robin Hood, The Hound of the Baskervilles, and The Wizard of Oz.

This script however did not seek to emulate a preestablished plot, but rather a genre full of tropes I best knew via spoofs on Whose Line. I did not truly have a particular affinity for film noir, horror, or indeed alcohol (although, aptly, I later worked as a bartender throughout the show’s run). Yes, I had, as a child, briefly toyed with being a detective, but that was more because I liked the look of a trench coat and dapper hat. I did enjoy the construction of a good mystery though, albeit initially because I was a huge fan of Scooby Doo.

Anyway, script complete, I duly typed it up and forgot about it. I then rediscovered it when rifling through old work to self-pitying moan about how talented I used to be (“oh, to be as sharp as I was when I was twenty-one!”). Surprised by how well it held up, I decided to try writing more. This was not necessarily because I had the means or drive to do a series. No, I most likely thought it was easier to build on a pre-existing idea rather than have to come up with a completely new one. Writers can be lazy like that.

The entire first series was reverse engineered from that initial edition. It is amazing how many integral aspects of the show come from that original dashed off script. The case of the week structure (which alternates between Johnny verbally sparring with Betty at the office and him investigating a crime) is in place from the very beginning. Hairy and Drac are characters I ended up using again and again because it was a joy to write for them. Johnny visits The Cough Inn, a location I realised in retrospect it made sense for an inebriated sleuth to visit multiple times, so it ended up being the setting for a mystery in episode six (which in turn led to the creation of deadpan bartender Jo, another stalwart of the show).

There is no real reason why there were seven episodes in the series instead of the traditional British sitcom run of six. I worked out the arc as I wrote and found once I was done that I had enough stories to fill seven. As episodes ended up being released weekly across October with the finale landing on Halloween, this meant a double bill to start and end the first season. Most subsequent runs are six episodes, plus a Christmas special in December.

Once the drafts were done, I made the series a coherent whole. During the rewrite, I reverse-engineered setups and added new recurring jokes, so even standalone episodes contributed to the ongoing plot. I now had myself a set of scripts that felt like a show, but what to do with it?

Having edited podcasts in university, I toyed with the prospect of producing it myself. However, these had been lowkey affairs with minimal production values (my panel show, The Booth, didn’t even have a theme song). To think I would have been able to engineer a recording session in addition to creating soundscapes and effects was a tad ambitious. For a start, I only owned one microphone! If this was to become a show, I would need help...

Taken to Taskmaster: TV Review

In January, I recommitted to blogging more regularly with what was presumably set to be a monthly roundup of the media I had enjoyed recently. Then the pandemic hit, sapping my creativity and motivation, along with the additional effect of making even the concept of joy seem futile and frivolous because people are DYING, Brendan. This is not the time to say you like a celeb memoir!

Anyway, while I have yet to return to writing silly jokes (beyond instructions for my funeral), I have binged a couple of TV series I had never seen in full before that I absolutely adored.

Derry Girls (perfectly pitched. The cast and characters are all so great that I cannot pick a favourite).

Buffy the Vampire Slayer (some seasons and relationships drag, but a few episodes rank among the finest hours of television of all time).

But the one I enjoyed most is the programme whose catchy theme tune loops in my head as I settle down to sleep: Taskmaster.

This is one of the best comedy shows the UK has ever made.

The core idea of Alex Horne's creation is wonderfully simple: set five funny people the same absurd task. Watch them tackle it with vastly different approaches. Rate their efforts. Hilarity ensues.

It is a rollercoaster of a competition. The perpetual underdog can win a game with some unexpectedly brilliant moves. A spectacular triumph can be immediately undermined or revealed to have broken the rules. The number of episodes has doubled since the series began, so there are so much more points up for grabs. The leaderboard gets incredibly tight at the top with positions frequently changing every show. It is quite the ride.

It must be such an incredibly hard show to cast. And even more difficult to be on. It is such a unique proposition: six to ten episodes of a panel show in which you must justify to a sceptical Greg Davies why you did a very silly thing when panicking, on the spot and against the clock (the explanation offered is often that they were panicking, on the spot, and against the clock).

Potential players must be honest with themselves – are you a good loser? Competitiveness is fine, but the show is more comfortable for us (and you) to watch if you do not care too much about winning. The challenges range from creative to physical to lateral thinking, so surely you will not be rubbish at all of them. What if you are though? Will you visibly sulk or can you laugh it off like Nish Kumar?

The best runs of the show are where the contestants feel like a gang. Each quintet is cast from a few different comic generations, but some combinations feel like a supportive bunch of pals who love each other’s attempts, cheer the successes, and commiserate for the absolute shockers.

For this reason, series four and five were some of my faves. Mel Giedroyc specifically is a wholesome delight. Happy to be there and enjoying every second, she makes sure to pocket the tasks’ wax seals as keepsakes. Her giddy mood really embodies the show at its best: silly people doing silly things. It is the perfect antidote for these trying times.

Series ten comes out on Channel Four soon. You do not need to have seen the previous nine in order to appreciate it, but I absolutely recommend them all.

Enjoy watching this TV show. Your time starts now.

Passed A Way: Guidelines for my Funeral

If you are reading this, either I am dead or you are rifling through my stuff.

SHOO! Get out of it.

Now that has wheedled out the lookie-loos, let us move onto the business at hand. I am dead. Hopefully from passing away peacefully in my sleep after a wonderful day spent with loved ones. Or from falling off stage after attempting a pratfall too athletic for my advanced years. Either/or.

Anyway, I'm gone now, so at least one (1) person will be tasked with summarising my life in a way that makes it sound mildly interesting. I won't be around to hear it, of course (which is a shame because I do so love praise), but I can still provide some tips, so you can truly know 'this is what he would have wanted'. Besides from getting to be alive longer.

Anyway, here are my guidelines. Follow them if you don't want to be haunted.

If foul play in my demise is suspected, start by announcing 'someone in this room is a murderer'. Even if this turns out not to be true, saying the phrase will give you chills.

While I have long established that a love of Scooby Doo is part of my personal "brand", at no point during your tribute should you say 'ruh roh', 'jinkies', 'jeepers', or 'zoinks'.

Do not allude to my secret second family. Do conclude that the true treasure was the family we found on the way. Related: do not reveal where I stashed the actual treasure.

You are limited to one pun based on my surname. If multiple people are giving speeches, swap notes before the service to check you're not using the same one.

No podcast clips. Listening to one en masse is weird. Podcasts are for headphones, car journeys, or playing aloud at home as if it's radio.

If speeches are running long, please play people off like they do at the Oscars, albeit using 'Mahna Mahna', the song from The Muppets. Incidentally, puppets are not banned from the ceremony and are, in fact, encouraged.

No use of any pre-university nicknames. My grandma does not need to know why I was called Squeaky Bubble Butt.

Do not refer to the Swedish Motorway Incident.

Do refer to my luscious fringe.

And if someone reacted suspiciously to the line about murder, hire four teens and a dog to investigate.

Good for Them. That's Not for Me: Dealing with Other People's Success

Because I am not a monster, whenever I see someone announce a recent success, I think ‘well done’. My second instinctual response is far less wholesome. It is ‘now why didn’t I get that?’. Even if I had access to similar opportunities, I feel resentful that I missed out. Your win is somehow my loss. 

It is an ugly attitude of “they’ve got nice things. Why don’t I have nice things?”. Like a child put out that they do not get a present when it’s someone else’s birthday. 

What I rarely consider in that moment is whether I even want to be doing what they are doing. I also forget that I have my own nice things.

We should remember that often we do not know what people have given up in order to get their little victory. Marathon runners have limited diets and strict bedtimes. Any touring act misses a lot of weddings. 

Nor do we consider that the achievement is a fleeting thing instead of a perpetual plus. Anyone who wins an Academy Award has spent years being rejected, ripped off, and objectified. It must feel incredible in the moment. All your hard work paid off! You are guaranteed to make international headlines the next day. 

Within a year, your name will be just an answer in a pub quiz. 

It is important to remember that Facebook and Instagram are essentially people's highlight reels (Twitter, however, is a million anxious voices chronicling their stress in real time). It is a version of someone’s life that they have consciously curated, edited, and presented. You are not getting the full picture. Married couples still have fights. You do not want to know how many takes was needed to get that lovely family photo with the kids. 

I keep all this in mind whenever I see someone else celebrating. I try to face it with an attitude best encapsulated in a simple motto. 

Good for them. That’s not for me. 

In other words, I delight in my friends and colleagues reaching a goal. I have used the Love reaction on so many statuses that I potentially rendered the word meaningless and now need a completely different one. Or I have limitless capacity for love. Either/or. 

However, I not only recognise their significant achievement, but I also accept that I may not want it for myself. YOU go climb Everest/run a marathon/join that opera company. That's not one of my #lifegoals. While you chase your dream, I will be at home, content with my lot. You go after the Oscar. I’ll do the pub quiz.

THE BOOTH - 3.01 - Nicknames

THEME: Nicknames.

WHO'S IN?: Much to Brendan’s surprise, Clare and Dan are still both here.

WHAT DO WE KNOW ABOUT THE BOOTH?:

It has somehow taken fourteen episodes to reveal that all downtime between shows is spent trying to identify Jack the Ripper. To help with the investigation, the studio is decked out in charts and maps. Clare and Brendan are both wearing Victorian dresses. There is a mannequin with the face of Antosh Wojcik.

FIRST TIME FOR EVERYTHING: upon learning that their scores are tied, the panelists agree to end the episode on a draw.

SIX DEGREES OF THE BOOTH: There are multiple callbacks to the summer special (which Dan repeatedly encourages you all to listen to).

NEXT UP: like everything else in the world, all plans for future podcasts are on hold. In the meantime, check out Dead Drunk Detective, the podcast I plugged at the end of this show. There are four whole series of that to listen to if you’ve not got much else on…

This episode can be found for free here.

Five Things to Know about Improv: what I have learnt from half a decade of making stuff up

I have now been an improviser for five years. In that half decade, I have taken shows to festivals, co-hosted one of London’s longest-running jams, and played so many talking animals that I am probably owed a visit from Doctor Doolittle. I have now seen countless hours of people making stuff up in pub theatres across the capital (and done a fair bit of it myself).

However, the intangible nature of the form means you always have more to learn. You are never a finished product. I have gained a little insight into the art though. Here are five important things I have learnt about improv.

Improv can make you a better communicator

Which, ironically, I was apparently unable to adequately get across in a job interview. Asked at a talent pool full of potential employers to give a two-minute presentation on something I was passionate about, I chose to explain why improvisation has helped me become a better speaker. Why I am now a more patient, less competitive conversationalist. How I focus on the topic being discussed instead of waiting to butt in with my own. That the discipline encourages you to discover the joys of collaboration.

Evidently, I made my hobby sound too engaging. The people who heard my talk told me it seemed whatever role offered me would be a consolation prize, second best to improv. One inquisitor said they used to enjoy painting but gave it up to pursue their office job. Which, to me, as a tragic summary of adulthood, cannot be topped.

I had explicitly stated in my opening paragraph of the speech I did not want a career in the art form.

Of course, even if I had wanted to make stuff up full-time, I could not because...

Improv is not a career

The most successful in-demand teachers and performers still hold down their nine to fives. Most people I know who perform at Edinburgh Fringe are freelancers or jobbing actors. I can count on one hand the number of London troupes big enough to tour.

The best way to make money in this field is teaching classes or doing running corporate workshops. It is extremely unlikely you are doing that daily, let alone making enough money from it.

Besides, if you take up your hobby as your career, what on earth will you do to relax?

Improv can easily become your entire life

Improv is moreish because you get instant affirmation, encouragement to make jokes, and an excuse to mess around with friends. It feels good to be with this community, so naturally you chase that high by doing more things with those people.

This can result in improvisers being the main people in your social circle. Even if your schedule is not dominated by rehearsals and shows, you will probably hang out with your fellow players as your go-to buddies. Although you are not technically performing while out and about, you may still be ‘on’, doing bits, and falling into shoptalk.

Improv should not become your entire life

If you do improv exclusively, then you’ll end up hating it, abandoning it, and having nothing to fall back on. Eat chocolate cake daily and you’ll soon grow sick of it. You need everything in moderation. To use Sarah Silverman’s maxim, make it a treat.

I am “lucky” in that the conclusion of my first improv course coincided with me getting a job which limited the amount of evenings I was free to pursue the form. This has meant I avoided overdoing it. Which I one hundred percent would have done for precisely the reasons I detailed in the section above.

I did come close to burning out though.

Once classes were done, my group kept meeting weekly to make stuff up. Soon we formed a team. Finding a format to work on gave our rehearsals focus. Then we developed a second idea which required its own evening to practice.

This meant we were doing a total of six hours of improv across two consecutive nights.

It was too much. The second session always suffered as we were exhausted.

Not only that, but one format did not play to our strengths. We always came in demotivated. We were struggling to master something we would never make work. Not realising the problem was that the structure did not serve us well, we instead ended up questioning whether we were actually any good at improv.

We eventually dropped that show in favour of the one that we were all psyched about. That is what saved us and the only reason why we are still going today. That love for our work has kept us going and yet…

Improv does not have to be for forever

When my team first formed, there were fourteen of us. Over the years, as is to be expected, people started to move on. Some left the community. Some left the country.

One person dropped out because the classes were a chance to learn something new, to get out of the house. They enjoyed the mucking around. They were not particularly interested in being a group that gigs.

Everyone finds their own point at which to stop.

Our group continued. We worked on a format, tried out a few drafts. We found one that works. For some, ticking that box and solving that problem was a satisfying way to end their tenure. They could walk away with pride. Ditto those who were part of our one hundredth ever gig.

I have not stopped.

It has been five years since I joined the community. It has also been almost five years since I started at my day job. I am attempting to find a nine to five so I can find a better work-life-improv balance, but until then, pretending to be a talking animal is a small part of my week. Maybe it is better that way. Perhaps in the future I will give it up entirely and pursue some other area of creativity. But, for now though, I will keep on painting.

The Jerk Store Customer Helpline

Hello, this is the Jerk Store. I’m calling for Sammy.

Right, you're their friend. Sorry, this is the only number I was given for them. Well, could you still pass on the message?

Great. Then please tell Sammy that… we have sold out of them. There are no more Sammys in stock.

Yes, we’ve been selling Sammys at the Jerk Store. And quite a lot of them!

It’s not for me to ask why people are buying jerks. All I do is supply them. Look, just tell Sammy we’re all out, will you? Thanks.

Will we get more in? Why – you looking to get another of your pal?

Oh, how will we get more? Uh, that’s a company secret. Don’t worry about it.

Right, I have got to go. These jerks won’t sell themselves! Which is just another reason to hate them. If you have any further questions, our contact details are online. And if you want to be sold in our store, don’t hesitate to get in touch.

I was not implying anything. I am just saying that –

Hello?

Jerk.