Pizza-covered Gossamer

Bill writes:

Yesterday’s shoot with Cormac C, Alex T and Bill O’B, was ably assisted by resident boom chick and resident English/Dramery consultant  Janet G. 

 The highlight for moi, baby, was getting to spit well chewed and spittle-laden bits of cold pizza all over young Mr Cormac. (Young Mr Cormac, in the vein of Young Mr Grace for those who remember Are You Being Served. )

Rambling aside with some point to it: Are YBS was one of that era’s British comedies that knew there is something very comforting for viewers in only having two scripts, and 58 line of dialogue. The other classic example is It Ain’t Half Hot Mum. And one of the characters in that was the inspiration for Cormac getting a good coating of pizza a la Bill. I think the only time Gunner ‘Nosher’ Evans had a line was when he had a mouth full of biscuit, and I always thought that it was tres funny indeed when he would spray people with the crumbs while making conversation.

Of course, there is rather a very large line between funny tv behaviour and acceptable personal behaviour, but I do confess to often talking with my mouth full, and indeed spraying people with food scraps. Cormac, on the other hand, is a very fastidious fellow who takes great care of his personal appearance and grooming. In the past, he would have been called, by less evolved people, a big homo. Nowadays he is a grand example of what is sometimes called a metrosexual. The Sergeant Major from IAHHM might say Poof! but that was then, and this is the future.

Anyways, I had one pizza, and a lot of videotape to do a number of takes of me going zwoosgragragrawhoompha into his face. Well, face, shirt, trousers, the desk in front of him, the chair behind him, and probably the wall behind that.

Didn’t. Flinch. At. All.

Well done that man!


This is the mailer for episode 4.

One of the strengths of speculative fiction, also colloquially known as science fiction, is the chance to ask, What If ...

What if, perchance, we are all small clockwork machines made of sawdust and stitchings in some dark, bizarre experiment? What if we are but self aware dream creatures in a minor god’s musings? What if three guys in a tank bought from The Warehouse during a March Madness sale are the last chance for civilisation? And what sort of civilisation could these clowns possibly be protecting?

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