Saturday 28 November 2009

Journal of Cannonby: There's a Hole in Your Chest, Dear Ivan

A bit late again with this one.

The script was read/played by:

Narrator: Me
Cannonby: H.R. Humphreys
Carmarthen Bevan: Me
Stephen Teal: Dafydd Evans
Boris: Dafydd Evans
Ivan Öleinme: Me

*****

Journal: The Remarkable Doings of Cannonby
There's a hole in your chest, dear Ivan

Narrator
A dense shroud of sleet hangs cloyingly over the deserted boards of the usually bustling pirate galleon, the Sodden Calamity, like a cerecloth pronouncing death upon the ship. It's hardy, and somewhat anomalous, crew have taken refuge within its parental boughs, choosing the warmth and bonhomie of huddling in cramped quarters, over the unwelcome airborne pneumonia that broods in the outside air like an Arctic death threat. The sizeable crew have been together for quite some time by this point, and nothing can knit together a friendship like a protracted series of piratical shenanigans upon the open seas, or closed seas for that matter. There are numberless close groups of friends on the ship, well that's probably slightly hyperbolic; there are in the region of 10-30 close groups of trusted friends aboard the Sodden Calamity, but as this is the journal of Cannonby, it is probably for the best that we focus on his. Sitting around the Captain's operations table are; Carmarthen Bevan, known as the Wet Wipe of Calamity; Stephen Teal, easily recognised by his horn and tentacles; Boris, the ships chef pillaged from the service of famed seal clubber Bludonna Snow; and of course the Captain himself, Peables Cannonby, scourge of the South, the man who lay waste to the West, ancestor to Peter North, he also has an East infection. Social outcast and cyborg ZX Ilfracombe is also in the room, though he has been switched off and is being used as a holder for his pewter stein, which holds a fetid cocktail of grog and vodka, which he refers to, hilariously, as grogka. The sleet from outside is seeping through the walls, shrouding the scene in fog, which is mixing with the vodka to create fogka.

CNBY: Damnable atmospheric conditions, its gotten so I can't even taste myself drink anymore.

BORIS: That's probably got more to do with what you've been drinking Comrade.

CNBY: I have not been drinking Comrade, I've never even heard of such a drink.

BVN: Oh bin bags, the Captain is given to such awful jokes when he is under the influence.

BORIS: This is a pathetic way to excuse shoddy writing.

BVN: Watch yourself, Comrade.

BORIS: Harrumph.

CNBY: Why are my closest connections on my own ship such laborious oiks?

BVN: I resent that.

TEAL:


CNBY: Oh how I wish something exciting would happen...

BORIS: The genies were last week.

CNBY: Potential listeners won't be able to see this, but I am currently giving you a stern drunken glare.

BORIS: I am intimidated.

:D

CNBY: By Hal Emmerich's soiled undercrackers! It's an apparition!

APP:
I seem to have crashed in your ship.

BORIS: An apparition collision!

APP: A loudmouth, you must be Cannonby, I am here to warn you of your reckless ways.

BORIS: An apparition on a mission!

CNBY: Enough! Apparition, declare yourself!

BORIS: An apparition exposition.

APP: Ivan Öleinme.

CNBY: Yes, I can ruddy well see that, a big one there in your chest.

IVAN: No this is my name.

CNBY: Ah, handy!

IVAN: Certainly the practicality of my name has been something of a comfort whilst in the cold embrace of death.

CNBY: I imagine it would be, you seem like a stein half full sort of bloke.

IVAN: Well thanks, I'd like to think of myself as a… wait a minute! I am not here to be pally with you, hear my cautionary tale and change your ways. Let us set the tone with
.



IVAN: We vikings lived for the reckless abandon of battle, every waking moment was filled with the....

CNBY: (interrupting) Is that how you died?

IVAN: Please, do not interrupt.

CNBY: I'm sorry. I am just excited, I do enjoy a good story told well and it's been so…

IVAN: You're still interrupting.

CNBY: (petulantly) Well it's my ship.

IVAN: The clack of blade on blade, of blade on helmet, of blade on shield, of blade on bone. We liked blades is what I am trying to say.

BORIS: I like blades too. They're bladey good stuff.

IVAN: But this was my mistake… (dramatically) a blade put an end to me.

BORIS & BVN: Whoooo.



CNBY: Why doesn't your helmet have horns on it?

IVAN: This is a historical inaccuracy.

CNBY: Did you drink wine out of human skulls?

IVAN: No, this is also historical propaganda.

CNBY: What about mead?

IVAN: We drank nothing from human skulls.

CNBY: (aside) You must've been thirsty then…

BORIS: What about the rape and pillaging?

IVAN: Well we do love to pillage, but this is just a mistranslation. We love grape and pillage. Vikings love grapes.

CNBY: I am also fond of grapes. Boris, you're a man of the world. Where are there grapes in abundance?

BORIS: Vinehaven, perhaps.

CNBY: Bevan, man the wheel, Boris, rouse the men, set a direct course for Vinehaven. Teal, get yourself to the crow's nest.

TEAL:


CNBY: Disgusting as you go, Number One.

IVAN: Do you take no heed of my tale of death?

CNBY: Now look here you wusscake. You've not really told your story, but I quite like you, despite the off-putting schism in your chest. I say you pop yourself into Ilfracombe over there and come along for the ride.

IVAN: But he is a living creature!

CNBY: (chuckling) There's room enough for another personality in there, and there'll be grapes!

IVAN: And pillage?

CNBY: More pillage than a blister pack of aspirin!

IVAN: Well I don't understand your futuristic terminology, but okay!

CNBY: That's the spirit! And you are one after all!

Narrator
And with that, the pun was done. The iron-wrought cyborg shell of ZX Ilfracombe was melded with the spirit of the regretful viking Ivan Öleinme, offering the fallen warrior a second chance at life. The impulsive Captain Cannonby has ordered the crew to set sail to Vinehaven, the Garden of Eden for lovers of currants; black currant, red currant, white currant, zante currant, currant affairs, and also for lovers of raisins, wine and of course, grapes. What stimulating jeopardies await our adventuresome ensemble? Tune in and find out, on the next exciting tale of Cannon-Ball Z!

*****

As always, new shows every Saturday/Sunday 12-3 on www.rhonddaradio.com.

5 podcasts already edited. Will appear soon.

Tuesday 24 November 2009

The Guff of Vapidity

Today, I was almost killed by Richard Herring.

I was at the wheel of a moving automobile when through the mesh of my speakers came an unexpected reference to Quantum Leap. I can’t really explain why I found this quite as funny as I did, but the force and depth of the laugh this joke drew from me turned my arms to lead and blurred my vision. Luckily the route I take in to work is so familiar unto me that I am able to take it masterfully even in my comedy-weakened state.

AIOTM is a strange beast, and I am particularly drawn to the occasional awkward pause. A notable pause in the most recent release, number 7 I believe, came after a joke where AIOTM was described as “the longest suicide note ever”, lending the comment a, hopefully accidental, feel of hopelessness and desperation. Which amused me greatly.

I’m dragging this out as I have nothing in particular to discuss, as my creative attention is still very much taken up by the radio. A cycle of preparing-performing-editing has begun, and as of today I have finished editing last weekend’s shows, meaning it is already time to be looking toward next weekend. I figure this cycle of single-minded creativity probably isn’t wholly healthy, but there we are. I am still pleased with the state of affairs, satisfied with a consistent goal of my own choosing. And also there are much laugh to be had, which is always a good thing, no?

I am purposefully attempting to be needlessly flowery and purple in order to flesh out this entry, which is essentially vapid guff, which I feel I should probably apologise for, but at the same time I am simply gushing this out stream of consciousness in order to pass some time, and distract myself from everything banal and mundane that pesters and whinges for my attention. Ironically, an attempt to escape from banality has merely produced this piece of extended banal bumph. What I have discovered is that, in the wrong hands, irony is unamusing.

I have spent this week so far editing the radio show, branching out musically and listening to mellow Malian Salif Keita, as well as reading The Importance of Being Earnest. Pro-active creativity, world music and Oscar Wilde, I am incredibly cultured now and I would like a badge to prove it please.

The Observer music countdown where I first heard of Salif Keita, whose album Moffou was judged to be the 8th greatest album of the decade, has since let me down, as I have now discovered they believe the 7th greatest album to be The White Stripes’ Elephant. This, coincidentally, is the only White Stripes album I own, having bought it using gift vouchers I won for something or other, probably attendance (good), while still in school. It is one of my least favourite albums, one of the few that I own that I genuinely dislike. It has a place alongside Eminem’s The Marshall Mathers EP (a gift from a friend) and Good Charlotte’s The Young and The Hopeless (to my embarrassment, I must admit that I purchased that of my own free will, with quite a lot of excitement if I remember correctly) in my ‘Albums I am embarrassed to own’ category. I also have Madonna’s Beautiful Stranger and the New Radicals’ You Only Get What You Give, but they are singles and don’t count (and they are also good).

I know this as I recently trawled my album collection in order to harvest tracks to play on the radio. The only track that made it onto my playlists from an embarrassing album was an Avril Lavigne track titled Naked, which is only on there so that I can follow it with the weak one-liner “That was Avril Lavigne naked”.

I am such a genius, I despair of myself.

Monday 23 November 2009

Journal of Cannonby: Sending out a ZX

I missed this Friday's slot where I usually upload a Cannonby script, so this one is now 2 weeks old. Nevermind eh.

The script was read/played by:

Narrator: Me
Cannonby: The Monk of Tweed
Carmarthen Bevan: Me
Stephen Teal: Dafydd Evans
Boris: Dafydd Evans
Rubya Bakfat: The Monk of Tweed
Kay Wye O'Thassaspot: Me
Bubba Rubbs: Dafydd Evans
ZX Ilfracombe: Me

*****

Narrator
On this day, the sea was so calm that it could pass for a sheet of stained-glass window, as long as the stained-glass window in question had etched upon it a still ocean scene. The pirate galleon Sodden Calamity, a proud and feared vessel and home of the unrenowned pirate crew under the command of Cannonby, a tall man in his late thirties, with a flustered brow and 20-20 vision. Though often the ship would bear down ferociously on hapless merchant vessels, no such aggression was currently underway. The ship floated serenely, an array of fishing rods jutted from the deck of the ship, the stringy spider-webs of timid hunting spewed forth into the sea, from which the crew hoped they'd be extricating their evening meal. But alas, the oblivious fishing pirates are about to discover that when you are afloat on the world's strangest seas, it isn't merely fish what swim in the sea...

CNBY: Ah, Bevan! How goes it with the fishing off the boat for fish? Any fish? I am eager for fish, man.

BVN: Now, patience Mister Captain, fishing is a slow process where patience really is key to the entire process.

CNBY: I don't care about keys, Bevan! I want fish, aren't you listening? Somebody else must be a better fisherman than you. You there, Stephen Teal, how goes the haul?

TEAL:

CNBY: (as though saying "Oh that's interesting") Oh, that's disgusting.

BORIS: Captain! Captain! I've caught something!

CNBY: Heaven help you, Boris, if this is not a fish.

BORIS: It is not a fish.

CNBY: I am displeased. Show me this trinket you've dislodged from the wide open sea.

BORIS: Here you go Captain.

CNBY: (exclaiming) Huffington Post! It's a nondescript, bog-standard bottle. Like the kind you'd get milk in. Except there's no milk. This bottle is filled with fog. Though common sense dictates that I shouldn't release the unknown fumes within, my innate sense of reckless curiosity insists that I do.

TEAL:

(POP, then - whooshing of smoke)

CNBY: Who in the name of Genius Gene's pre-worn jeans are you three?

RUBYA-BUBBA-KY: The genies!

KY: Drifting the ocean in our bottle-craft...

RUBYA: The genie masseurs of Clubba Rubbs who give no wishes, but instead give...

BUBBA: A massage in a bottle.

CNBY: Clubba Rubbs, usually a pun of that quality would have brought up my dinner, but since there are no fish... (accusatory) BEVAN... I will forgive you, on one condition.

BUBBA: Name yo terms.

CNBY: Massage me!

KY: Actually we insist on massaging everyone.

CNBY: SPLENDID!

Narrator
But all was not splendid. For Cannonby was not aware of the dangers a massage from the Clubba Rubbs Trio would bring. The genie-masseurs secrete a narcotic paste from their wrists, which, when mixed with the human sweat during the massage process, the individual would be put into a neverending sleep, a deeper rest than is possible even under general anaesthetic or by pricking your finger on a spindle. The entire crew were lost under the hypnotic influence of the massage, bar one man. Usually hidden away, deep within the bowels of the vessel, unaffected by the mystical massage stands the ironwrought ZX Ilfracombe, who fires a warning glance at the Clubba Rubbs Trio, and ominously presses down the Play button on the stereo system embedded in his chest.


RUBYA: You monster, you've knocked out Kay Wye, she's allergic to Sting and the Police.

BUBBA: You freak; half man, half machine.

RUBYA: What does it mean? What does it mean?

ZX: ABSENCE OF SOUND! IT IS MY ROLE TO EJECT YOU FROM THIS VESSEL.

BUBBA: Try it Captain Aluminum.

ZX: I AM NOT THE CAPTAIN. NEITHER AM I CONSTRUCTED FROM ALUMINIUM. I FIND YOUR WITTY BADINAGE LACKING AND LABORIOUS.

RUBYA: We will not be talked down to in this way, we are the massaging genies of Clubba Rubbs, the most renowned floating massage parlor on all of the 7 Seas and also in 98 of the 141 major Scottish lochs.

BUBBA: Those Jocks can massage your bones right outta yo body.

ZX: THEY CAN INDEED.

RUBYA & BUBBA: GASP!

RUBYA: I'd heard rumours of the twisted experiments of crazy Scottish massage-scientists, but I never for a moment believed they had the massage skills and scientific knowhow to create a cyborg.

ZX: I AM NO CYBORG. I AM A PIRATE. AND I WILL BEHAVE AS ONE. ENOUGH! I WILL PARLAY NO MORE WITH YOU PARLOR-MONKEYS.

BUBBA: Then its time for battle.

RUBYA: But Bubba, we aren't warriors!

BUBBA: (remembering like the guy off 3rd Rock from the Sun) Oh yeah.

ZX: I AM DESIGNED AND CONSTRUCTED FOR BATTLE. DESTRUCTED. CONSTRIGNED. MY LEFT ARM IS AN ENFIELD RIFLE. MY RIGHT, A WINCHESTER. I AM ALSO EQUIPPED WITH A BLUNDERBUSS, BUT I AM NOT ABLE TO NOTIFY YOU OF ITS WHEREABOUTS, DUE TO TASTE AND DECENCY REGULATIONS.

RUBYA: Don't shoot!

ZX: I AM AFRAID I MUST.

BUBBA-RUBYA: AAAAARGH!

Narrator
And thus the hero of the hour was ZX Ilfracombe, who bore no grudges against his narrow-minded crew, despite being hidden away in the dank underbelly of the ship, due to his metallic nature. The Clubba Rubbs Trio were scooped up and replaced in their bottle container, which was fired into over the horizon using the mighty power of the inappropriately-located blunderbuss. With the massage-genies now miles away, the crew begin to come around.

CNBY: What in the name of Sephiroth's glorious platinum locks just happened?

BORIS: It seems we were held under the genies' massage-based powers, which is quite the embarrassment.

BVN: We haven't seen this calibre of sea-based masseuse-related catastrophy, not since that brouhaha with that old Arsenal midfielder from the 90s and early Noughties.

CNBY: Yes, the infamous Ray Parlour Parlor-Parlay Pirate Pile-up. Awful business.

ZX: BUT I HAVE SAVED THE DAY.

CNBY: (exclaiming) ILFRACOMBE! What are doing above deck? Get back in your cage you metal freak!

TEAL:

Narrator
And so it goes to show, that even if you save the day, you don't always get the respect you deserve. Especially if you are a futuristic robot man, with an embarrassingly situated blunderbuss protrusion.

*****

We aren't on FM anymore, but business will continue as usual on www.rhonddaradio.com which is good for a number of reasons: it is further reaching, the sound is cleaner, and there are no ofcom-style bodies overseeing it. We'll still have our 12-3 slot Saturday and Sunday. I am glad, as my weekends would be dull without them.

A podcast will definitely happen, I have already edited 3. Rejoice. Or if you haven't done so yet, simply joice.

Friday 13 November 2009

Journal of Cannonby: The Further Misfortune of Stephen Teal

Here is last week's reading from the astonishing diary of Captain Cannonby.

The script was read/played by:

Narrator: Me
Cannonby: AM Caradog Llywelyn
Carmarthen Bevan: Me
Stephen Teal: Dafydd Evans
Bludonna Snow: AM Caradog Llywelyn
Boris: Dafydd Evans

*****

Journal: The Remarkable Doings of Cannonby
The Further Misfortune of Stephen Teal

Narrator
Drifting restfully over a sea of still and sparkling azure, the crew of Captain Cannonby collectively catch their breath, as a quiet period descends over the fraught group. Nothing can be heard apart from the occasional complaints from passing seagulls, the slow slop of the waves against the proud boards of the magnificent pirate galleon, the Sodden Calamity. The most recent rumpus that befell the reckless crew had them stuck tight in a sea that had frozen over, seemingly in the blink of an eye. They had been caught in the sea-fields of the Octnarwhal, a creature thought to be made completely out of myth, lies and hearsay, but in reality a creature that is created from the component parts of an octopus and a narwhal. It leapt from the sea and set upon the crew, eventually being dislodged by handyman Carmarthen Bevan, but not before hideous damage had been done. Luckless bosun Stephen Teal had become entrapped in the tentacles of the Octnarwhal, and, using its magical powers, had replaced his head with an Octnarwhal egg. Deep in the heart of the Sodden Calamity, Brave Mr. Teal lays, attempting to recover from his injuries, though he is in no way aided by constant visits from his overeager Captain.

CNBY: (exclaiming) Ruddy hells bells man, what in the name of Nefertitis bleached moustache has happened to your head?

BVN: (pleading) Please, Mr Captain, the octnarwhal did him a mischief, you were there, remember.

CNBY: Oh yes. He had an egg for a head. However, his head is no longer an egg.

BVN: Well Captain, you know what eggs do...

CNBY: They scramble! They boil! Scramble and boil with bubbling eggy rage. Fear them Bevan, or they will egg your house.

BVN: I live on a boat.

CNBY: They will egg your boat man! They do not give two hoots for your housing situation.

BVN: Look now, you've missed the point, the egg didn't scramble or boil sir, it hatched.

CNBY: (exclaiming) Nature's miracle! Congratulations Stephen, you've given birth to your head! What's its name?

BVN: He's having trouble speaking sir, he hasn't quite gotten used to passing the vocals through the body of an octnarwhal pup.

TEAL:

CNBY: That's disgusting!

TEAL:

BVN: Look you've upset him now Captain.

CNBY: Son of a bun Stephen Teal, I'm beginning to wish your face had never been born!

TEAL:

Narrator
But for all the Captain's jest in regards to the strange seapuppy that was the mangled face of Stephen Teal, little did they know that it was about to become the main player in a very strange turn of events. For high above the Sodden Calamity, a mysterious hot-air balloon hovers ominously, like a fat wasp ready to poke its stinger into a slack bicep, and the cutting eyes of Bludonna Snow, the world's most prominent seal clubber are locked on the oblivious galleon. The balloon is fitted with an enormous PA system, which its two inhabitants, Ms Snow and her industrious and loyal servant Boris, use to pump out their signature tune in preparation for their assault. And when you hear on the wide of open seas, you know that you are only minutes away from having your seals clubbed.


SNOW: Look at them down there Boris, they have no idea that very soon, I will have clubbed their seal pups into oblivion.

BORIS: I don't see any seals.

SNOW: Of course you don't dear Boris, that is why I am the clubber, and you are the gimp.

BORIS: OK.

SNOW: I can sense one, hiding in the bilges like the filthy rat it is.

BORIS: I thought it was a seal.

SNOW: It is a seal! Enough of this, it is time to strike! Grab my bats Boris, we will jump.

CNBY: It really is a lovely day for a man to have a human head.


CNBY: Hello, you've jumped onto my ship. Who are you?

SNOW: Club him boris.

- CNBY YELLS.

SNOW: Now to find this seal.


BVN: Oh binbags, they've only gone and conked the Captain, Teal, help me get him to safety.

TEAL:

SNOW: That's distgusting! Why are you wearing a seal on your head? And why does it have a horn? And tentacles?

TEAL: (struggling to speak) i-i-i-t-s o-c-t-n-n-n-n-a-r-w-w-w-h-o-l!

BORIS: That's disgusting.

SNOW: Rubbish, pass me my bat, it may not look like a seal, but like my old master used to say, you can take the seal out of the club, but I will still club the seal. (either this or ad-lip random battle-cry) HAAIYAH!


BVN: Oh no. Don't just stand there Stephen, focus your energies, use horn attack!

TEAL:


SNOW: AAaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaagh!

Narrator
With an almighty charge and prod of his mighty octnarwhal horn, Teal sent Snow hurtling through the clear mid-afternoon sky, where she landed safely in her hot-air balloon, because this is a daytime show, and not even the baddies are allowed to die. The crew are straggled over the deck, Carmarthen Bevan looking bemused and befuddled, Stephen Teal nursing his horn and the comatose Captain Cannonby splayed across the boards. Boris stands nearby, attempting to look inconspicuous and nonchalant, which of course makes him all the more apparent, and he is sent to the kitchen to become the ship's chef. And that is how you make friends when you are a pirate.

*****

If you're itching to find out what becomes of Cannonby and his crew, we'll be continuing the story tomorrow (Saturday 14th Nov, 2009) in the second hour of our 12-3 radio show on www.rhonddaradio.com.

A podcast will appear in the middle distance that is the future. This is now certain.

See you there.

Friday 6 November 2009

Journal of Cannonby: The Misfortune of Stephen Teal

Since I am working on the radio show I will recycle things I wrote for that here. The following is the script for the 'play' performed on last Saturday's show.

The script was read/played by:

Narrator: Me
Cannonby: Kadoogan Aboogan
Carmarthen Bevan: Me
Stephen Teal: Dafydd Evans
Octnarwhal: Kadoogan Aboogan

*****

Journal: The Remarkable Doings of Cannonby
The Misfortune of Stephen Teal

Narrator:
Resting upon uncharted icy seas, the pirate galleon Sodden Calamity, it's crew of scum, villains, ne'erdowells, antiheroes, blackguards, brutes, caitiffs, creeps, criminals, devils, enfant terribles, evildoers, heels, libertines, lowlives, malefactors, mischief-makers, miscreants, offenders, profligates, rapscallions, rascals, reprobates, scoundrels, sinners, wretches and chefs anxiously grope together for warmth against the biting frigid wind. Within the cabin, however, protected by wood and low hanging drapes, the ship's Captain, one Mr Cannonby, is locked in intense debate with his right hand man Carmarthen Bevan. The ship is stuck solid in the unknown frozen seas, and they are righteously flummoxed as to how to escape.

CNBY: (frustrated) Our ship is stuck solid in this unknown frozen sea, and frankly I am rightously flummoxed as to how to escape.

BVN: (reassuring) Now look here Captain, you've just got to calm down, no good ever came from huffing and puffing like a confuddled bandersnatch.

CNBY: (conceding) You're right, we've got to stay cool, if we put our heads together we can overcome any obstacle.

BVN: Correct, we've been through far worse than this Mr Cannonby.

CNBY: (correcting) Captain.

BVN: Oh yes, Captain, sorry Mr Captain.

CNBY: Oh Carmarthen, when we set sail all those years ago, I never envisaged such an icy hell as this. I've been afloat for so long I feel as though I am forgetting why I ever took to the ocean.

BVN: I've been meaning to ask for several lines now, why did you turn to sailing Mr Cannonby.

CNBY: Captain.

BVN: Mr Captain.

CNBY: Carmarthen, when I left the port at Battersea to go to sea, I went to see what I could see, and, you see, I have seen much of the sea, though not as much as there is to see. I've been to as many places as I could reach, as long as it had a beach, my claims you cannot impeach. I've been to gay Paree where they say oui merci, I saw the Pope in Rome and slapped his chrome dome and was sent home, I've slapped a world map from a sack and attempted a geographical rap. I'm experienced is what I'm saying.

BVN: So how do we escape the ice?

CNBY: (improvise a reply if you want, something that means) I have no idea.

Narrator
Throughout this inane dialogue, the Captain and Carmarthen Bevan remain oblivious to the chilly horror that lies beneath the unmoving misty seas. The Sodden Calamity and its foolhardy crew has become stuck in the territory of the Octnarwhal, 50% octopus, 50% narwhal, 100% terror. 7% proof. It looks like a manatee with eight tentacles and a horn coming out of its face. The horror! Luckily the Octnarwhal rarely rises to break through the icy surface of the oceantop, only breaking its endless hibernation when it hears the phantom strains of wafting melodically over the ocean. Oh dear me, it seems Cannonby's crew are in for a shocking time. Shocktnarwhal.


TEAL: Oh, there's nothing like to warm you frozen barnacles on such a night as this. I, Stephen Teal, declare that nothing can ever spoil such a song.

we'll try and bang etc to replicate the cracking of ice and the sound it would make it an Octnarwhal crashed onto a boats deck.

OCNWL: WHICH TOOTHLESS BUFFOON DARES PLAY AND SUMMONS ME FROM MY ETERNAL SLUMBER?!

TEAL: WOW! It's an Octnarwhal. Never thought I'd see one of them.

OCNWL: SILENCE SCURVY CUR! I WILL HAVE MY OCTNARWHAL VENGEANCE!

TEAL: Look mate, you are stuck in the boards of the ship by your horn, there's not really much you're going to be able to do.

OCNWL: YOU! YOU ARE TAKING BLAME FOR ALL OF THIS! COME HERE.

TEAL: How stupid do you think I am?

OCNWL: YOU ARE CONVERSING WITH AN OCTNARWHAL!

TEAL: Fair point.

OCNWL: Come here. I have sweets.

TEAL: Well, usually I would never accept sweets from an Octnarwhal but since it is Halloween AAAARGH!

OCNWL: HAHAHAH! NOW I HAVE YOU IN MY INKY TENDRILS!

TEAL: Curse you Octnarwhal, curse you and your octopus tentacles. AAAAAAARGH!


CNBY: What's this ruckus? Good lord! A unicorn!

BVN: No Captain, I think you'll find that is an Octnarwhal.

CNBY: Jordi Cruijff! Get it off my ship!

BVN: Righto.


BVN: Well that's sorted that. Oh man alive, take a look at this...

CNBY: E-gads! Stephen Teal! What's happened to his face?

Narrator
And Carmarthen Bevan looked down upon the face of Stephen Teal, which had become wrapped in the inky tentacle of the fearsome Octnarwhal, and behind the ink, where there used to be eyes, a nose and a mouth, instead, there was one single beige egg. A fortnight later the egg hatched, and Stephen Teal was cursed to live the rest of his life with an Octnarwhal pup for a head.

*****

If you're itching to find out what becomes of Cannonby and his crew, we'll be continuing the story tomorrow (Saturday 7th Nov, 2009) sometime during our 12-3 radio show on www.rhonddaradio.com.

Hopefully we'll be able to podcast it aswell.

Ahoy for now.

Tuesday 3 November 2009

Radio Killed the Video Star

I’d start this blog with an apology, if that wouldn’t be a hubristic approach to take. It assumes that there are people who have bemoaned the lack of updates here, which there aren’t. This entry is going to be chocked full of self-interest and hubris so I will attempt to keep it to a minimum.

My blogular inactivity stems from the radio shows which, to paraphrase Shang Tsung, have begun. The preparatory work for these shows varied greatly, but strangely, being excited about the shows seemed to be an activity in and of itself, and despite having made outlines and plans for various features, the actual scripting of the scripted sections happened at 2am Saturday morning, as I blearily attempted to force whimsy through my weary brain.

The two shows ended up fairly different in the end, and we have come to embrace that, where we view Saturday as the heavily scripted pseudo-AIOTM style show, and Sunday as a more freeform pseudo-Collings and Herrin number. I warned you there was hubris. Obviously any comparisons to these works are about format rather than quality of output, although if they ask then you must vehemently insist that the work of three Welsh buffoons is as funny as the output of a 20+ year veteran.

We were surprised to find that none of the scripted sections we had planned for the Saturday failed, and so we will be sticking with regular sections the Journal of Cannonby, which takes the form of a play, Footballer or Religious Figure, in which I offer up a name of a real person and two potential histories, and of course, Dafydd’s longwinded joke. Perhaps unsurprisingly, it seems everyone’s favourite section was the interview with actual ghost Kadoogan Aboogan, whose name was originally spelt Cadwgan Y Bwgan, which we decided to change after an e-mail came in with the frankly amazing spelling. We will be bringing in a new guest every week, and though it may prove difficult to top Kadoogan, we are going to bust a gut with this weeks' guest.

Sunday’s show was a far less structured show, to the point where we were expecting to have to blag extensively in order to fill the 3 hours, but we received an unexpectedly abundant amount of correspondence, exclusively filled with positive feedback and funny ideas which provided an interesting platform to launch some silly chat. We expected it to be a 2 man outfit on the Sunday, but apparently our modifying of the playlist, specifically to play ELO’s Twilight and The Beatles’ Octopus’ Garden was interpreted as a secret signal by Mr Luke Sampson, whose wonderful blog can be found here, for him to come and join us. He was always intended to be a part of the Sunday show, but had originally opted out due to illness, however our subliminal music summons helped him overcome his maladies, and a good thing too, as some of the biggest laughs of the show came due to him.

We began to put more of our own music in the playlist due to the feedback we received on the Saturday, which was almost exclusively positive (I've said that twice now haven't I? Well it's the truth dawg), the only criticisms were of the music, which we were led to believe we had little control over. However as a few requests came in straight away on the Sunday we let loose a bit more, opening the show with the huge Kansas hit Carry on My Wayward Son, which really geed us up for the show. We substituted a few tracks, getting a specific excited response for Lostprophets’ Last Summer, buoyed by this, we started making more changes, and hence playlist mistakes were made. No ones seems to have noticed, but it amuses me and so I will go into it. Our radio station, Rhondda Radio thanks for asking, runs a ‘gem’ system, where in every hour a song considered a ‘hidden gem’ will play, though more often than not the track would have been better off staying hidden, IN MY OPINION. I am tempted to begin the next sentence with ‘our’ but since I am really to blame for the first one I will take responsibility. My first blunder was to accidentally replace a ‘gem’ with The Jam’s Town Called Malice, which is less hidden than the track which was actually scheduled to play, which was so hidden I’d never heard of it. Perhaps more of a blunder was towards the end of the hour where my capable co-presenter Dafydd Evans, who’s wonderful blog can be found here, replaced a ‘gem’ with Cornershop’s Brimful of Asha, the juxtaposition of which made me laugh, although my mother claims that this is a verifiable ‘hidden gem’. Expect more playlist modification this weekend, but be sure to e-mail in praising the songs, as that way we will be able to justify our choices.

The way I’ve written about the shows here has been a little bit dry, but it is perhaps necessary as I’ve had to be quite systematic in order to get in everything I wanted to say about the shows, which really excited and enthused me. There’s a link to being a fan of the show on the right hand side of the page, we will attempt to be judicious with our updates there, we know it can be really annoying when events/groups/fan pages on facebook send a million updates a day. Join up even if you can’t listen on the weekend, we are going to record the shows from now on, with an eye to editing them into a podcast, although we’ll have to work it out with whoever runs the station’s website about whether they’ll host it or not. If not, we’ll find another way to do it, but it might take time. We always planned on releasing it as a podcast, as all three of us, though the show goes under Adam & Dafydd, Luke is a key player as well, are huge podcast fans, to the point where we listen to far more podcasts than we watch television shows. With the amount of messages we’ve had from people asking for podcasts or mp3s it would definitely be worth doing, though this could be hubris again.

With the amount of people who were interested, but unable to listen when it was live, I came to realise that the last time I actually listened or watched something when it was originally broadcast was Stewart Lee’s Comedy Vehicle, and that was a lot earlier in the year, back when I was still a student. Everything else has been podcasts, iPlayer, 4oD, YouTube, definitely not illegal downloads though, and DVDs. It really is an On Demand Era, and podcasts are an integral part of a radio station, at least if it wants to keep the tech-savvy but incredibly busy ‘youth’ listening. BBC, XFM, Absolute; all the big hitters of the radio station world put out podcasts, and if Rhondda Radio wants to thrive as a station, I think it’s key that it follows in their footsteps.

As well as being what I think, it's also the stirring diatribe I am planning to give if the station aren’t keen on the idea of podcasts, though I am hoping that won’t be necessary. The station have been incredibly supportive of our show, which surprised us a bit as we were expecting to be slightly odd and inaccessible, but everyone seems to be getting on board, which is good news for us, though we definitely lose “hipster cool dude” points. Though we never really intended, or had hopes of scoring very highly in the hipster cool dude sweepstakes.

I am going to turn this blog into something which Peter Serafinowicz would likely describe as “biznure”. Having dealt with the business side of the show, I will now describe my pleasure. There was a lot of it.

The show, especially Sunday’s, was essentially a focused and condensed version of the sort of silly conversations we usually have. Focused inasmuch as we were actively trying to be funny in this situation, whereas obviously when we are talking in real it is more casual. But the rush of being in a room with 2 of my best mates and knowing that I’m likely to burst out laughing any second because they are actively searching for the funny thing to say is incredible. Getting messages from people who were listening was often surprising, as we had to remember that people actually were listening. I was pleased, more than anything though, of what we put out, I knew that we were guaranteed to amuse ourselves, but I am genuinely happy with how funny it was, thinking that even though the first 2 shows weren’t recorded, I would gladly record and put the subsequent shows online if they are as funny, knowing that what we put out won't be an embarrassment.

This one is a busy week for me, but I promise to prepare sufficiently for the shows and give them my all. I’d like to take this opportunity to thank everyone who listened and/or e-mailed in last week, and encourage everyone to do so again. We will be stockpiling messages throughout the week as well as during the actual shows, so even if you won’t be able to listen on the day, do get involved. If there's anything you want us to discuss, from hard-hitting topics to why your cat pees in the washing machine, to just telling us to grow up, feel free to message in.

Direct these midweek messages to acrecomedy@googlemail.com.

If we are currently on when you're reading this though, send them in to mail@rhonddaradio.com, if you send stuff there during the week, it'll get through to the presenters currently there rather than us, though I'm sure they'd thank you for messages aswell.

My internet doings have been very radio show centric for a number of days now, for which I apologise, but at the same time they have been the focus of my energies and so I am stubbornly going to force them onto people.

Hopefully something interesting and non-radio centric will occur to me this week for me to blog about. But even if it does, I’ll probably talk about it on the radio aswell.

The shows can be streamed from www.rhonddaradio.com, we are on at midday until 3pm on Saturday and Sunday. Listen to it! Love it! Or don’t. S'up to you really.

If you like it, spread it around you juggerknuckles! I do.

Thank you very much for indulging me. Bye for now.