INCORPORATING ALAN

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My sitcom about a writer of superhero comics who aspires to be the next John Dee has been commissioned. It's called 'Incorporating Alan'.

In episode one of Incorporating Alan, Alan hilariously sets out to prove that Paul Daniels is not a proper magician.

In episode two of Incorporating Alan, Alan is unamused to discover his publisher merchandising plushies of one of his edgy rapist characters.

In episode three of Incorporating Alan, Alan struggles to find a polite way of getting his friend Warren to stop dressing like him.

In episode four of Incorporating Alan, Alan struggles to find a polite way of getting his friend Grant to stop pretending to be him.

In episode five of Incorporating Alan, Alan refuses to partake in a Q and A at a Batman convention unless it is entirely conducted in Enochian.

In episode six of Incorporating Alan, Alan is at loggerheads with his publisher when he decides to kill off their most popular character again.

In episode seven of Incorporating Alan, Alan kicks off his two-year stewardship of the Pokémon comic by placing Snorlax in Chapel Perilous.

In episode eight of Incorporating Alan, Alan is infuriated when a critic describes his new experimental writing style as 'Krypto the Super Doggerel.'

That’s it for the first series. I was asked to produce more episodes but I referred the broadcaster to the occult properties of the number eight, saying that any other amount would exhibit preternatural ignorance.

Those Bloody Kids Are At It Again!

Those bloody kids (see August 21st) were back at it again last night, playing hopscotch on the main thoroughfare at 3am if you please. Needless to say, the people living above the places of business in that vicinity were awoken by this nocturnal delinquency. The gardai were eventually called and approached the trouble makers. However, it turns out that one of the youngsters whispered something so appalling into a garda's ear that he returned to his squad car and began to weep bitterly. He's still there now, we can't get him to unlock the doors.

The chalked out hopscotch game remains also. Instead of squares and numbers, like they used have in my day, turns out these ne'er do wells were hopping and jumping amongst occult symbols and diagrams. 'That'll be the heavy metal', I said to the local butcher and he agreed. The butcher then told me that the youngsters were reciting a rhyme as they played. Something about some one's mother, perhaps theirs. The butcher's eyes then glazed over and he started saying the rhyme himself. In a sing song voice, that was most unlike him, he went:

Say your prayers to the man upstairs.
He can't hear you coz we cut out his ears.
Mummy killed God and Mummy ate the sun.
Now it's time for Mummy to come.

The butcher then regained his composure to some extent but seemed very much discommoded by his involuntary recitation. I attempted to distract him by mentioning how every dog in the town seemed to be howling that night and how everyone discovered they were without electrical power when they went to turn on their lights. Putting talk on the butcher didn't seem to help. His limbs were shaking and there was quite an accident as he chopped me a leg of lamb.

Anyway, this used to be a nice town but it seems to me that the young people are getting out of hand. I've a feeling things are only going to get worse. To be honest, I've a good mind to write to The Herald about this or maybe even go so far as to drop a line to madame editor of the Times. I blame the parents myself, ...whoever they are.