Tales from Steeple Bumstead – Part 2 The start of a beautiful friendship….?
The continuing story of an April night of fun and mayhem. You may wish to cross-reference with the below mentioned characters’ Twitter accounts.
After everyone had digested Gregg Wallace’s deep and meaty sausages, Russell Brand whizzed me onto the impromptu dancefloor aka skate park. As I observed before, he is very bendy. Before we knew it, we had formed the perfect conga.
In the murk at the back we thought we saw Sid James, but it was in fact all man (part centaur) Arthur Smith, who said our conga was amateur. By the time we’d completed his instructions for improvement, involving a lot of nudity, cheese and cheesy nudity, he was off rambling in his head…I mean, Kent.
Larry Lamb charged out of the nightclub, exceedingly angry at how the night was panning out and shot everyone. Oh hang on, am confusing him with evil Archie.
Shaken by the near miss with the dark Lord of ‘Enders, Wallace (formerly known as pudding face) retreated to his veg stall, where he’d created a gorgeous cake of root vegetables. He built himself a 10 foot wall of cauliflowers and hid behind it whimpering. I comforted him in my usual inimitable fashion. He passed out.
Out of the root vegetable cake burst Piers Morgan with a cheeky little hamster grin. He was artfully cloaked in leeks to hide his nakedness. Atop his cake, he declared, ‘I am the cock of the walk, but soon I’ll be a feather duster.’ Perhaps he’d consumed a magic mushroom. A gravel growl came from on high; ‘I am the real cock of the walk’. It was Lord ‘Siralun’ Sugar! Piers was so outraged his leeks fell off.
Everybody started bowing and scraping. Most of them have never seen a lord before and expected him to be wearing doublet and hose. Piers was still sulking in a corner, so I decided to take an interest in his lonely little life. I asked him what his show was called. ‘Piers Morgan Tonight,’ came the answer. ‘So tomorrow night it could be Russell Brand? Or Jonathan Ross? Or do you call it that so you don’t forget your name?’ He started crying so I comforted him in my usual inimitable fashion. He passed out.
Fed up with his lily-liveredness, I returned to the conga. I passed Pudding Wallace in a huddle, I thought with the witches from Macbeth, but it actually turned out to be the Masterchef restaurant critics in leather fancy dress.
I started chatting to the currently unemployed Freddie Flintoff. With his rippling muscles, I thought he’d be perfect for the flick I’m making next year ‘Lady Windemere’s Fanny.’ Russell’s already got his bit in the can, so to speak.
The conga had petered out so I borrowed Britney Spears’ lungs to announce that it was clean-up time, otherwise Lord Sugar wouldn’t be best pleased. Everyone gave him 417%. Creepy crawly bumlicks! Russell was hoping for a pat on the head but Sugar ignored him. Yes, you guessed it, I had to comfort him in my usual inimitable fashion. He passed out.
Sugar cleared his throat and everyone fell silent. Gosh, the power the man has.
‘I’m fed up with all my multi-million businesses. I’ve decided to put on a show. Something with a bit of weight to it. What do you suggest…?’ He looked at me.
‘Er,’ I stuttered, then caught sight of Wallace and his cronies.
‘Macbeth’ I said. ‘Lots of blood and guts and betrayal and power. Just like The Apprentice!’ There was a silence. Everyone was nervously awaiting his response.
He gave a cackle. ‘You’re on. And you’re gonna produce it with me.’
And that, my dears, is how I ended up working for Siralun. More soon!