I am a man of two talents: I can do impressions of Mel from Big Brother, and Chris Rock from his Bring The Pain video. (Something about full ventricles, judging. Tain't what I wanted to get into, but it's slightly witty). Having turned down every offer to showcase my talents in film, write my autobiography, stand on a street corner offering to do impressions for heroin money, and do children's partays, only one option was left. Before I tell you what that one option was, I'd like to take this opportunity to completely waste your time reading this sentence. I was going to foil criminals, and in a strange break from protocol I wouldn't wrap them in thin metal, thus ruining any chance they ever had of passing through metal detectors and going abroad to drier climes. Stick it to da man.
What I did in my summer holidays: setting up the hitherto unmentioned tent opposite the bank of my choosing, lighting a campfire, getting moved on by the real police, setting up the hitherto mentioned tent in the park, covering it with little bits of green and brown and ostensibly vanishing from reality. Depending on whether I'm trying to make a point or fail at being funny, I waited for seven minutes or sixteen months before the bank started screaming and a goshdarned naughty boy ran out clutching a big bag of money and a bigger bag of money as well. I summoned up all my drug-enhanced ability and let rip. "Stop thief," I shouted as if Mel. "Stop thief," I shouted again, as if Chris.
Culture of celebrity. Make your own point or read the back issues. He sorta stopped but then carried on running. Curses; he foiled my foiling. Before the presumed descent into some form of cold hell or another, I was saved. "Stop thief," shouted the real Mel from the left. "Stop thief," shouted the real Chris from the right. Faced with the prospect of surround sound freedom fighter celebrities, our naughty boy dropped the bigger bag and ran off in some direction whilst Mel and Chris phoned their agents to tell them how brave they'd been, and could there possibly be any money in it. I pretended to do this as I gave chase in whatever direction he'd run.
I've forgotten to mention Michael Frank Ooh Betty Spencer Crawford, but I'm not sure what I wanted to say about him. A lesser man might see this as a reason not to mention him. A better man might too. Same goes for women. Je suis unique.
In whatever direction the naughty boy ran off and I follered, it seems there was an Eddie Izzard lookalike competition. Now there's a coincidence. Even more exciting, the big man himself was entering. "So Eddie you're a transvestite. Say something funny about jam," would soon be replaced with "So Eddie you're a transvestite. Say something funny about jam. I hear you entered an Eddie Izzard lookalike competition and came third." Add in anecdotes about him catching some naughty bank robber almost single handedly, save for a little help from Mel and Chris (the subsequent guests) and we've got ourselves a chat show. I'd either host and do my great impressions week after week, or just slink in the shadows; it'd depend on how much money they'd offer me.