#potboilers

Now picture Magilla Gorilla crossing paths with a mangy-looking B-movie potboiler ape such as this, and the latter dropping dead from fright on the spot. Or how about Bingo per The Banana Splits, for the sake of variety?

My comment on Victoria Coren-Mitchell’s piece in the Guardian today was modded out faster than it could have been read. One day they’ll get the hang of moderation and deal with the abuse. But until then, here it is.

Victoria: Got this column to do by tomorrow, darling. Haven’t a clue what to write.

 David: Well, why don’t you write about Johnson, Davies and Fox having to share that big mansion thing? There’s bound to be a laugh in that.

 Victoria: Why’s that funny?

 David: Well, it’s just at the heart of all good comedy. Take a bunch of characters and put them together in an ordinary setting doing ordinary things.

 Victoria: Are you sure about this, darling?

 David: Take it from me. It’ll write itself. The comedy comes out of the characters, you see. They don’t do ordinary the way ordinary people do ordinary.

 Victoria: And that’s funny?

 David: Yes. Look, you’ve got Fox, he’s all buttoned up and “Look at me, I’m a doctor you know”. Desperate to be seen as a class act but just comes over as Mrs Bucket. And then there’s Boris, who’s the real deal in breeding but a total messy plonker.

 Victoria: In what way?

 David: Oh, I don’t know – leaves his underpants everywhere, probably.

 Victoria: Ooh, I like that! But what about this other man – Davidson, Davis?

 David: Oh I don’t know. Let’s look him up. There’s probably loads about him on the internet. Yes, see, he’s some kind of paranoid nutter Tory. Probably hates gays and likes the thought of hanging people.

 Victoria: Hang on, just writing that down. H-a-n-g-ing. Okay. What now?

 David: Well, you just have to, sort of, imagine them doing the sort of things you and I would do, but like they would do it.

 Victoria: What, like playing poker and appearing on panel games?

 David: Well, I suppose I had more domestic things in mind.

 Victoria: Writing articles and going to parties?

 David: Look, this isn’t working. Think about some ordinary people you’ve known. Remember that squat you used to live opposite? The Romanian who was actually a heart surgeon but was having to work as a kitchen porter?

 Victoria: Oh, God, Yes. Such fierce dark eyes. I was always worried he had a knife. They all do, you know.

 David: I must remember that. Then there was that skinhead who was soft as they come and into Bach. But when he took his dog for a walk everyone crossed the street.

 Victoria: Nice dog. Staffy.

 David: Now try to imagine an overgrown public schoolboy with a habit of making things up and ditching his friends, a jumped up Daily Mail reader and a paranoid Little Englander doing what they did.

 Victoria: No, sorry, can’t imagine. My mind’s stuck on the pants. Think I’ll just list all the sitcoms I can remember and write about the skinhead and that gorgeous Romanian.

 Half an hour elapses.

 Victoria: Finished. It’s not awfully “socially aware” though, is it, darling. I mean this is the Guardian.