On 13 Jun 2014 at 1:48pm scribe wrote:
Can we write a sitcom, one line at a time? Worth a try. (No trolls or digs that are too nasty) Here we go:
Lewes Lawyer walking up High Street in Medieval garb: Oh no I'm late! I wanted to join the procession down the high street but I got the date and directions from the Sussex Express. [Walks into Brewers Arms for refreshment]
Take it from there!
On 13 Jun 2014 at 2:41pm Eccles wrote:
Eccles says hello don't i know you from somewhere ,
On 13 Jun 2014 at 3:49pm bastian wrote:
Yeah! I work in the local cake factory.
On 13 Jun 2014 at 4:19pm 8 miles from home wrote:
On 13 Jun 2014 at 4:28pm Kettle wrote:
The door swung open. Kettle stood in the doorway, framed by the sunlight. She was the most beautiful woman Eccles had ever seen.
'Who are you calling a fairy?' she said.
On 13 Jun 2014 at 4:42pm Kettle wrote:
It was then that they noticed the gun in her hand.
On 13 Jun 2014 at 4:52pm trooper wrote:
Do not worry said the "Fairy" its only plastic.
On 13 Jun 2014 at 4:59pm Historian wrote:
Then the landlord shouted "Get outtah mah Pub ! And stop waving that thing around, you are beginning to wake up my regulahs !"
The strange smell lingered like a heavy smog going completely unnoticed amongst the seated men.
On 13 Jun 2014 at 6:10pm Sweeney wrote:
A beat up old Cortina screeches to a halt outside the pub..."your nicked sunny boy. We've got you bang to rights you slag"
On 13 Jun 2014 at 6:28pm A wrote:
Said the local pcso, the cars on its way out can you give me a push?
On 13 Jun 2014 at 6:55pm cliffecat wrote:
Then Tristan black swaggered past sweating and straining in his suit, bashing eccles whilst rubbing himself up against his finacial times... clear the way old chaps I have twine in my briefcase and Im going to.....
On 13 Jun 2014 at 7:07pm Sussex Jim wrote:
Historian: Mr.Eccles does not smell that bad. And he insists on the door being open to dispel any smog. And there is no landlord- a matriarcal dynasty now runs the excellent pub.
On 13 Jun 2014 at 7:29pm Knob end wrote:
Well done Jim you really pi55ed on that ,
On 13 Jun 2014 at 7:42pm scribe wrote:
Adverts: Come to the Brewers Arms - excellent food and beer (music diddly diddly dee)
Now - what happened next to Tristan black and his twiny briefcase...?
On 13 Jun 2014 at 7:51pm Ageing Hippy wrote:
Meanwhile in the front bar of the Rainbow , Mo ( Moriarty ) was holding his breath , he had to visit the Gent`s and it was the only safe way to withstand the incredible ransidity from the slab - enough to soften the paint on the inside of the door and cause the strange graffiti to assume Dali like features
On 13 Jun 2014 at 9:56pm scribe wrote:
Eccles rushed in - coughing and wiping the tears from his eyes. Tristan Black has tied the regulars to the bar in the Brewers with really expensive string!! He's put a keg of gunpowder at one end and he's threatening to light the other!
On 14 Jun 2014 at 7:36am Critic wrote:
We regret to announce there will be no further episodes of the Lewes sitcom as the audience has died of boredom.
On 14 Jun 2014 at 10:21am Teenager wrote:
Oh well, that's Lewes for you.
On 14 Jun 2014 at 12:32pm cliffecat wrote:
Ha ha scribe !!!
On 14 Jun 2014 at 1:33pm Martin Ames wrote:
What a sad response to an excellent idea by Scribe - but, hey, who needs anything challenging?
On 14 Jun 2014 at 2:52pm scribe wrote:
Thanks to all the true literary geniuses who joined in. And back to commenting on Bill's and the council's dodgy behaviour with the cinema. Big luvvie kiss.
On 14 Jun 2014 at 5:06pm cliffecat wrote:
Was funny, anyway Tritan Black had to get to his lover with his leftover artisan twine, she was waiting with her old holborn bikni like in her wickle eco knickers !
On 16 Jun 2014 at 2:06pm Town Flyer wrote:
Nobody had realised that Tristan Black was a northerner and he said he had t' wine in his briefcase, not in fact a useful and very strong gardening string but a very nice bottle of red..
On 16 Jun 2014 at 5:32pm Blofeld`s Cat wrote:
cliffecat WTF are you on about , even in catspeak I can`t make head nor tail of it