On the run from Andi Peters following a misunderstanding about cruises, Melissa begrudgingly agrees to follow her friend Joanne (and Joanne’s 17th century throwback ‘life partner’ Fax) to the Edinburgh Fringe. While leafleting for Fax’s dreadful stand up show about faith healing and vegans, Melissa endures the highs and lows of pretentious student plays, ‘street typing’, and the knowledge that her shop has been left in the hands of someone who doesn’t understand tills…

Crap Comedy is the follow up to the 2018 novel Crap Holiday. Read it here.

As I approach my flat, I find myself inexplicably trying to move ‘stealthily’, like I’m some sort of fucking spy. It’s not really working, given that I’m pulling a suitcase and the vodka bottle I liberated from the Feng Shui Co-op is clinking in my bag. Also, the Andi Peters QVC police probably won’t be waiting round corners just in case I come back off holiday. Probably.

Great. Here comes the world famous fat, hungover spy, getting up in people’s business because… the Queen… there’s probably a bomb somewhere. No there isn’t. OK, here comes the world’s shittest spy on account of how you’re not supposed to be famous if you’re a spy you fucking idiot.

No one’s around when I finally stop being enough of a twat to go inside the building where I live. Not even Tony from downstairs. Oh shit, what if Andi Peters has killed Tony from downstairs? Like, as a down payment? I don’t know, isn’t that how mafias work?

Come on, get a grip. Andi Peters would not go round killing Tony from downstairs.

Right, I have to stop being such a coward and go inside and face whatever they’ve decided to punish me with. And I need to do it before Tony comes upstairs and asks if I’ve ‘been looking under men’s kilts’, which is something Tony from downstairs would say, even if he was dead.

Instead of going inside, I slump down on my suitcase and have a swig of vodka. That’s much better.

What happened to toys in cereal? They used to be the reason people bought fucking cereal.

Cereal companies have been scamming us this whole time! They got us used to getting prizes in our cereal, then took them away. Except, now I think about it, they didn’t do that, they replaced the prizes with ‘codes’ for ‘online books, yay’, because you can’t choke on a code, unless I go to McDonald’s right now and shove the code up their bums.

Just in time, I remember that McDonald’s has nothing to do with cereal box prizes. Then I realise I’ve been building up a vendetta against Kellogg’s, and I still haven’t gone in my fucking front door.

Maybe it’s time to go in and face whatever music I have waiting for me. Where are my keys? Shit.

To my relief there are no lethal booby traps in my living room. And there aren’t any armed goons waiting to shoot me in the fanny for non-payment to QVC. I would check the other rooms and inside the washing machine but I’m too tired.

I might be a bit pissed. The carpet looks funny.

Right, let’s read my mail:

  • Bank statement: OK, I guess.
  • Catalogue for that company that does felt tips with your name on them: Ooh, must read this, I love these. I wonder if they’d do me a set of felt tips that say ‘FUCK YOU JOANNE’? or ‘I love anal’? No, they’d probably just think I meant ‘I love Alan’. I do not love Alan.
  • Letter from Ideal World. Oh fuck. Also, it’s not even QVC that’s after me. At least it doesn’t smell like it’s written in blood.

Oh god oh fuck oh god. Ideal World are coming for me, and I’ll have to go to court, and I’ll have to go to prison, and I’ll have to make friends with ‘Big Shirl’ in order to not get my head kicked in.

You know what’ll help right now? More vodka.

I am a bit calmer now. Maybe I should call some sort of helpline? There must be a helpline for people who don’t want to open their letters. Samaritans? No, that’s stupid. The police? No, that’s double stupid.

Maybe I should ring the Post Office? That seems like the best thing to do, but as I go to get my phone I realise it’s past 8pm and there probably won’t be anyone there.

You know what? What if I called a psychic? They might be able to tell me what’s in my letter without me having to open it.

OK, pros and cons of this plan:

  • They might just lie
  • What if it’s bad
  • I don’t actually want to know what the letter says
  • It’s a bit of a mental plan to be honest.

Right, it appears I only have a few options left. Either I can move house, get a sex change and move to Uzbekistan, or I can open this bastard letter. I’m not sure what goes on in Uzbekistan, or even where it is really. Before I can stop it, my brain pipes up with ‘Well that didn’t stop you trying to go to Abu Dhabi did it?’ Fuck you brain.

Oh god I really need to stop crying. Ideally I need to get up off the floor too. I make a deal with myself – if I am brave and open the letter, I will buy myself some stickers. No, fuck that, I will buy myself some roller skates. Maybe I can use them to escape from Ideal World. I’m not feeling very ideal right now.

Suddenly I get an unexpected burst of adrenaline, and I’m ripping open the envelope before I can stop myself. A bit like ripping a plaster off, although this feels more like getting my entire scalp waxed.

OK, moment of truth – am I going to prison or are Ideal World going to demand three easy payments of my kneecaps?

‘Unfortunately, we have not recieved your deposit in time for processing, so we have been unable to successfully confirm your reservation on the Carolina Star.

We apologise for any inconvenience, and we hope you will continue shopping with Ideal World in the future.’

That’s it. That’s it? Inconvenience? I literally went on the run to another fucking country for this. I voluntarily spent time listening to Fax’s shit comedy for this. I fought with vegans for this. And all I get is a letter that says “oh fucking well never mind”.

Well, shit.

A few hours later it all seems like a bad dream, and almost like it never even happened. I’m folded up on the settee watching QVC (proper QVC this time, I’m still a bit scared of Ideal World). Andi Peters is on, and I can watch him again knowing he isn’t going to kick my head in. There’s not much vodka left in the bottle, but maybe that’s a good thing.

He’s selling the lovely pies. More specifically, he’s selling a “pocket pie variety pack”. I’m not exactly sure what a pocket pie is, but they look really nice.

You know what? I should treat myself. I’ve had a hard week and I deserve to sit here eating the lovely pies. Where’s my phone?

‘Yes, I’d like to order the Superb Savouries bumper pack… and can you ask Andi Peters to wave at me please?’


The end. Thanks for reading.

One thought on “Crap Comedy Chapter 52: All The Pies

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