i digress (but it's for a good cause).

Not been posting as much as I'd like recently because (believe it or not) I've been working on the cover (and a bloody good one it is) for Twitter Titters, a new collection of comedy writing created through the social networking site Twitter in support of Red Nose Day.

Feel free to go and buy it now, then come back and read the rest.

I'll still be here.

Cover illustration: Obviously the work
of a God-like fucking genius.

For those of you outside the UK or the US (which has it's own version of CR broadcast on HBO), Red Nose Day is a bi-yearly fund raising extravaganza organised as part of Comic Relief, a British charity organisation that was founded in the United Kingdom in 1985 by the 'comedy' scriptwriter Richard Curtis in response to famine in Ethiopia. Over the past 21 years Comic Relief has raised more than £600 million for charities both at home and abroad.

Mostly by members of the public dressed up as animals, or in ill fitting Wonder Woman Outfits.

Which is kinda unfortunate for me seeing as I get totally freaked out (and quite possibly over-reactionary) to people dressed up as big animals and the like during charity events.

I mean, I’ve worked in some of the roughest area’s in Glasgow (which I admit is most of it) and been confronted by masses of E numbered children, junked up on Sunny Delight and Cola Cubes brandishing permanent markers like so many steak knives (albeit smelling slightly of sweets) like a sea of testosterone fueled sports shop mannequins swaying in an imaginary breeze without breaking a sweat. But put me in a room with a balding middle aged man in a tiger suit and I’ll be cowering in the corner liked a puppy that’s just pooed on your favourite coat.

How did this all begin I hear you ask and why is he telling us on what's meant to be a crap film blog?

Well, to take things one step at a time, I was once assaulted in a pub by a stockily built and very angry woman dressed as a certain visually impaired bear wielding a bucket of small change and frankly this is by fair a much cheaper (and more anonymous) alternative to therapy.

Not the real bear and monkey,

but a mock up for illustrative purposes.

There are a few things you really must know in order to put this whole, sorrowful tale into perspective, dear reader. You see, when I’m not slaving away over a hot drawing board or trying to educate the masses in the way of the zed grade Eurotrash movie via this illustrious blog I can be found down with ‘ver kids’ (as I think Daily Mail readers call them) desperately trying to make them realize that tightrope, balloon modeling and stilt walking are useful skills to acquired if one is to have any chance of getting a job or beating that pesky drug habit.

It’s a dirty job but someone has to do it.

Anyway, after a particularly grueling ‘decorate the burnt out car with symbols of community spirit’ workshop I’d decided to retire to a local (but not that local - I’m not stupid) alehouse for a relaxing pint with a co-worker when who should enter but the aforementioned yellow bear (in case his lawyers are reading I’d like to point out again that it wasn’t the real one) clutching a dented rusty bucket depicting a famous blue children’s train and accompanied by someone dressed as a giant, gone to seed.monkey waving an inflatable banana.

In my oh very slightly intoxicated state of being it appeared, to all intents and purposes, as if the late, great Harry Corbett himself had forced (at gunpoint) the studio heads at Cbeebies to make a six part road movie featuring a down at heel, heroin ravaged Pooh Bear and one of the lesser known Tetley’s chimps (by the sound of it the one with Tourettes).

A kind of child friendly Natural Born Killers if you will.

Only funnier.

“Gorrenymoneyfirthaweans!” The bear shouted as it vainly attempted to be heard over the electronically treated voice of Noel Edmonds emitted at random intervals from the battered and rusting Telly Addicts slot machine, clumsily traversing the narrow gully of grey skinned, yellowed scalped old men their trousers at half mast as though in tribute to a thousand dead cats. As is the norm in this kind of situation, I reacted as any sane human being would; I attempted to avert my gaze by concentrating on the depths of my pint. Too late though, I’d already been spotted, the bear’s single milky eye having an almost Medusa-like effect on me.

But obviously without the turning to stone bit, which frankly would be a bit far-fetched, even for the East End of Glasgow.

I desperately tried to nudge my colleague so as to look like we were in the middle of some deep Pinteresque monologue secretly praying that the giant animals would leave us in peace and target the urine stained man leaning precariously on the edge of the cigarette machine. But to no avail.

My sly git of a workmate had already legged it into the toilets.

The deafening clank of rusted metal on wood soon brought me to my senses and I looked up to find myself gazing into the furry matted face of a monster, to my right the monkey, after haphazardly slamming the (by now drooping) banana in front of me like some ancient tribal war rite, was perched on the edge of my friends still warm seat, it’s pink, faded felt backside slightly too big to fit comfortably on the chair.

“Gizummoneyfirthaweanson”.

The bear didn’t blink.

Regaining my composure, reaching for my wallet and hoping that whatever spare change I had on my person would be enough to send them on their way I was suddenly hit with an idea so utterly nonsensical (not to say suicidal) that part of me still thinks it was someone else that did it. Almost as if, for a second or two, I’d been lifted out of my body and been replaced by some kind of mischievous Native American woodland spirit.

You see at that moment I decided to start a conversation with this bright yellow beast.

“Anything to help, you know I work with kids myself so it’s kinda funny, like I’m paying my own wages”.

I managed a feeble giggle at my own (fairly funny if I do say so myself) joke.

“Whit?” Came the bear’s slightly confused reply.

The atmosphere suddenly turned sour as the monkey leaned toward me. Putting it down to the stale mix of cheap vodka and kebab meat emanating from its toothless maw I bravely continued.

“Yeah, some of the work I do is paid for by the bear charity (name changed to protect the innocent) so I always tell folk to cut out the middle man and just buy me a pint!”

I gave my biggest friendly smile, hoping that the animals towering over me would see the funny side.

“WHIT?”

The chimp finally spoke “Are you tellin’ me that they don’t just give the money to the weans?” The pair gazed at each other then turned to face me, the bears eye appearing to glaze over, like a shark moving in for the kill.

“So I’m oot dressed like a numpty collecting cash for those poor wee kids just so you can pish it up a wall? That’s no right by the way”.

A large furry fist hit the table causing the bucket to rattle.

I don’t know why but I had a very slight feeling that I may have said something to offend her. My brain was working overtime, do I try to find a way to diffuse the situation, explain myself better or do I just glass the monkey and run?

“But they have to pay the people who come in to do the work” I explained (and you thought I’d pick the last one didn’t you?) “It’s not like they can do it for free, I mean it’s my job”.

There was silence.

Phew (or some other twee word) I thought.

Sorted.

As I lifted my glass I noticed the bear begin to slowly stand, towering over me like, well like a big yellow bear really.

“So your job is taking money outta weans mooths just so you can buy drink? D’ya think I get paid fir dressin’ like this? If ida known I wouldnae bothered!”

I really couldn’t help laughing, imagining this mad she-bears doling out cash to soot faced urchins as they zoomed around the streets in their grannies motorbility chairs, X-Boxes strapped to the sides for extra power, causing havoc as they crash into the back of buses whilst OD-ing on Frootlubes, gobstoppers and Cheese Strings.

At least I’d assumed I’d imagined it and not blurted it out loud.

The next thing I knew was that I was lying on my back with a split lip, covered in beer and coins and with the imprint of a five pence piece just above my left eye (it’s still there by the way).

The barman broke the silence by asking if I was alright whilst subtlety leading me to the door and out into the street, the steely gaze of a dozen incredulous punters burning into my back. It was the first (and only) time I’ve been barred from a pub for being punched by a bear.

That wasn’t the most humiliating thing about it though, oh no.

That was the point when, upon trying to get a cab home I realized that the sodding chimp had stolen my wallet.