Tape 195: Untitled Sitcom About A Time-Travelling Private Detective
Last week I was delighted to receive a message from my old friend Rufus Penzance inviting me to come on his podcast The Worst Writer In The World. Years ago, when I first started doing comedy in London, Rufus co-ran my favourite open mic night, The Freedom Fridge, with his double act partner Howard. At the time, I knew Howard as “Stretch Howard” and was repeatedly assured this was genuinely his name. Since then, I have variously been informed that his actual name is either Howard Long, Howard Knight or Howard Stretch. I believe that none of these are true and that his real name is not even Howard.
I used to love gigging with Rufus and Howard, but eventually they decided they didn’t like doing live comedy and moved into the world of podcasting, where they’ve been doing The Worst Writer In The World for several years now. In the podcast, Rufus reads out old stories Howard wrote as a teenager and belittles them. They must finally have exhausted his entire back catalogue, as they have now begun inviting guests on to read their bad old writing. I was thrilled to be asked, and knew exactly what to send them.
Occasionally, when I’m trying to find old documents on my computer, I’ll scroll past a folder called “Untitled Sitcom About A Time-Travelling Private Detective.” I hadn’t opened it in years, but I remembered it being utterly batshit. I sent it to Rufus, and then sat down to reread it. Jesus fucking Christ. I don’t want to spoil everything I rediscovered in it, because you can listen to the podcast for that when it comes out, but I feel it’s worth delving into some of it here.
So. I wrote this sitcom in late 2016 after I’d done a few Edinburgh shows and was beginning to think about what else I’d like to do beyond making live Fringe shows. I’d made a webseries with Ralf Little and had really enjoyed it, and thought about expanding my comedy screenwriting skills to a full-length script, and settled on a parody of 1930s noir detective movies, but with a time-travel twist. I settled on this despite having never seen any 1930s noir detective movies. My knowledge of the genre was based almost entirely on the PC game Discworld Noir, in which Rob Brydon voices a Humphrey Bogart-esque private detective investigating a murder spree in Terry Pratchett’s Discworld. The script is therefore full of what I think are clever allusions to the genre tropes of noir, despite my only knowledge of those tropes being based on something that was already parodying them.
I believe this is now true for all noir parodies. I think every noir parody is actually an interpretation of a previous noir parody, and that nobody who actually likes or watches noir movies has made a noir parody in decades. Nobody sincerely makes films in that style any more, so the only ways that pop culture continues to reflect it is via an increasingly distorted impression of an impression, like Alvin Lucier’s disintegrating sound project I Am Sitting In A Room. I believe my script sits proudly within that tradition, in that it adds precisely nothing to the genre.
The entire thing is dripping with scorn for the very idea of writing a sitcom itself. At one point the detective’s sidekick, Clark (described in the script only as “an idiot in a stripy jumper,” despite the fact that her intelligence level varies wildly throughout the episode, sometimes acting as the voice of reason, sometimes running around in the background waving her hands over her head and ladling soup into various receptacles, never doing anything relevant to the plot) asks him who he’s talking to. He replies “The audience. For the sitcom we’re in.” She tuts and says “I hate sitcoms.” Later, Clark asks the detective to explain the plot to her and he says “How should I know? I don’t write this rubbish. I’m just the star.”
At another point, one character begins to express her grief by throwing her entire bodily weight against the walls of the detective’s office, causing the set to collapse, revealing “a much more expensive-looking set in another section of the soundstage – perhaps a desert island or a ballroom.” Clark remarks that that set looks nicer than theirs, and the detective replies “Yeah, it was for a scene we had to cut.” I maintain that this is funny, but the idea that I thought anyone in the TV industry would read this script by a completely unknown writer and say anything about that particular scene other than “Well obviously we’re cutting this bit” is ludicrous.
The overall tone is of a script written by someone who had been endlessly harangued by producers to hand in repeated drafts with conflicting notes and eventually lost their temper and strung together some barely coherent but sporadically inventive rubbish and handed it in with a real “Will this do? Is this what you wanted?” snarl. How I arrived at this tone, considering this was a first draft that nobody had asked me to write, I’ve no idea.
The genius who wrote this.
When I opened the PDF for the first time in eight years, I was alarmed to read a disclaimer on the title page reading “I am happy for the first 10 pages to be considered as my submission to BBC Writersroom.” I have no memory of submitting this script to BBC Writersroom, and it may not surprise you to hear that I do not think I should have. For one thing, scrolling down it I quickly noticed that the formatting was completely wrong – I didn’t have any screenwriting software at the time, so had written it in Word (or, more precisely, a free version of Word called “Libre Open Office”) but using the Courier New font to make it look like a screenplay. However, because I didn’t know how wide to make the margins, this 30-page script was clearly way, way too long. It took us two-and-a-half hours to read through it on the podcast, meaning the pilot episode itself must surely be between one hour and 90 minutes.
I remember thinking it was proving difficult to get it up to 30 pages, and wondering how writers come up with stuff to fill their pilot episodes. The script is full of pointless scenes of Clark and the detective sat in their office talking about the plot, and I really think this was just a case of me trying to fill more pages.
You may notice I haven’t named the detective yet. This is because the detective’s name is one of the script’s running jokes. His name is Damien Rice, like the Irish singer-songwriter who was briefly popular in the early 00s because his song “The Blower’s Daughter” was used in the film Closer. I thought it was really funny that every time the main character had to introduce himself, he had to say “I’m Damien Rice – not THAT one.” Choosing Damien Rice as the reference point for this joke was an interesting choice even at the time, considering I wrote it a good decade after Damien Rice was briefly popular. Rufus and Howard’s reaction to the joke attests that in 2025, the joke is utterly meaningless.
Damien, like every hard-boiled noir detective (I think, at least if Discworld Noir is anything to go by), is hung up on his ex, and his memories of her frequently intrude on the narrative, but never once add anything to it. Here is a flashback that Rufus and Howard took particular issue with. I recreate the scene in full because that’s probably better than me trying to explain it. In discussing their current case, Clark uses the word “Bed,” and then this happens:
DAMIEN – Clark! Wait. Did you say “bed?”
CLARK (Proudly) – Yep.
DAMIEN stares into the camera, horrified.
DAMIEN – Bed…bed…bed…
There is a flashback effect.
INT. KITCHEN. DAY.
DAMIEN and CAROL are sat at their kitchen table. DAMIEN is his “Old Self” again – clean-shaven, trilby and mac pristine, different-coloured hair. Their kitchen is neat and tidy. In between every line, they kiss passionately.
DAMIEN (V/O) – I remember when me and Carol bought our first bed…
CAROL – Damien, honey, we’ve been married for two years now. When are we going to finally buy our first bed?
DAMIEN – Carol, darling, you know we can’t afford it – business continues to be poor, and until my door-to-door estate agents business starts to bring in a bit more regular money, we just can’t afford luxuries like beds.
CAROL – I understand, honey. As long as we love each other, we can go without those kinds of fripperies. I love you, honey bunny.
DAMIEN – I love you too, Carol.
INT. BEDROOM. NIGHT.
The room is set up like a typical sitcom bedroom, but without the bed – two bedside tables spaced wide apart, with lamps, spectacles, books on them, etc. Stood in-between them, bolt upright and next to each other, backs to the wall, are DAMIEN and CAROL. They are in their pyjamas. They kiss one another.
CAROL – Good night, shnookums.
DAMIEN – Good night, Carol.
They turn out their lights. We see them in the dim blue light for a moment, eyes closed, stood upright. Suddenly, DAMIEN turns his light on.
DAMIEN – Oh, hang all this, Carol, this is silly. We’re young. We’re in love. Nothing could possibly go wrong. Let’s buy a bed!
CAROL – Oh, Damien! You’re my hero!
EXT. CAR PARK. DAY.
We start on an extreme close-up of DAMIEN’S face, red, angry.
DAMIEN (Shouting) – I’D LIKE A BED, PLEASE!
We pan out to see that he is stood next to the car in the car park. CAROL is next to him, locking the car door.
CAROL – There’s no need to say that until we’re inside the shop, Damien. And you needn’t shout. I know you’re excited, but just calm down a little bit.
They walk towards the front door of the bed shop.
DAMIEN (V/O) – Of course, I was wrong when I said nothing could go wrong. Things could go wrong – and they did. Now Carol’s gone. And the only thing I still carry from that old life of mine is that the bills still keep mounting up and they don’t get paid.
INT. BEDROOM. NIGHT.
The same bedroom as before, now with a double bed but only one bedside table. The room is a mess, full of discarded pizza boxes, Chinese takeaway boxes, etc. As the voiceover continues, DAMIEN staggers into the room, swigging from a can of lager, disheveled and stubbled again as before. He shrugs off his mac and removes his trilby, revealing that underneath he is wearing a filthy set of pyjamas. He stands on the bed, bolt upright, and turns out the light. In the dim light we see him fall asleep while stood stock still on the mattress.
DAMIEN – That, and that damn bed. Every night, a constant reminder of the arrogance of a younger man, the sheer bloody foolishness of thinking things could never get worse. Of course, I now know better.
EXT. OUTSIDE OFFICE. DAY.
We rediscover DAMIEN and CLARK stood outside the office. DAMIEN is still lost in thought. CLARK is frantically leafing through the script, trying to work out what’s going on.
DAMIEN – Bed…bed…bed…bed…
CLARK – Damien, what’s going on? What are you thinking about?
DAMIEN (Snapping out of it) – Sorry, Clark. I was just remembering when me and Carol bought our first bed.
CLARK – Did it help you with the case?
DAMIEN – No. I just can’t stop thinking about Carol. It’s a serious problem.
I offer no further commentary on the scene as it is not necessary, other than to confirm that the bed incident is never mentioned again, has no bearing on the episode’s plot, and we are also given no indication of how or even if the new bed contributed to the disintegration of the relationship. The entire flashback serves no purpose whatsoever. Also, the line “Business continues to be poor” is stolen from THe Muppets’ Christmas Carol.
The most heartbreaking moment of the recording came during the flashback in which we learn how Damien learned to use time travel, which I will again reproduce in full here, because it’s quite complex. Ignore the fact that Damien appears to be lying down in bed here even though the previous flashback establishes that he doesn’t know how to use a bed and sleeps standing up, it is one of many inconsistencies in the script:
INT. DAMIEN’S BEDROOM. MORNING.
We hear the plodding, wandering double bass of the theme tune. DAMIEN is in bed, still wearing his trilby and mac. His bedroom is an absolute state – cigarette ends everywhere. DAMIEN awakes with a start, grabs his phone – the double bass theme is his alarm. He shuts it off. He twists his face up in pain and lets out a cry.
DAMIEN – Carol!
He runs his hand down the empty half of the bed, then turns, tries to address the camera, but ends up performing his lines to just off-camera.
DAMIEN – She’s not there. She’s never there any more, since she left me.
At the very end of the line, he accurately manages to look down the lens, but it’s too late. Suddenly, the door opens and DAMIEN enters – dressed exactly the same but eating a Twix. DAMIEN IN BED looks at FUTURE DAMIEN, confused.
DAMIEN IN BED – You! What are you doing here? Where did you get that Twix?
FUTURE DAMIEN – I got it from the Londis downstairs. I’ve come back in time to tell you something very important, Damien. You’re not going to believe this – but you can travel through time.
DAMIEN IN BED – I do believe you. It’s the only reasonable explanation for this.
FUTURE DAMIEN – I know you believe me. I remember believing me.
DAMIEN IN BED – Why did you say “You’re not going to believe this” if you knew I was going to believe it?
FUTURE DAMIEN – Because I remember hearing me say “You’re not going to believe this” and I didn’t want to create a massive paradox just by being pernickety. I remember saying that too. And that. But I stopped after that one. But I did say that.
Pause.
DAMIEN IN BED – Fair enough. How do I travel through time?
FUTURE DAMIEN (Producing a strange device) – Just use this.
He chucks it over to DAMIEN IN BED.
FUTURE DAMIEN – If I were you, I’d become a time travelling private detective. Just think of all the crimes you could solve!
DAMIEN IN BED – Great idea. Cheers, mate.
FUTURE DAMIEN – Don’t mention it.
FUTURE DAMIEN leaves. DAMIEN IN BED yawns, stretches, stumbles out of bed. In several quick jump cuts, we see him sleepily stumbling downstairs, out of his house, round the corner and into a Londis. He buys a Twix, thanks the shopkeeper, leaves the Londis, and takes the device out of his pocket. He presses a button on the device, and then the entire screen shakes and wobbles, perhaps briefly flashes different colours. He ends up exactly where he was, then goes into his house, up the stairs, and into his bedroom. DAMIEN is lying in bed, and sits up.
DAMIEN IN BED – You! What are you doing here? Where did you get that Twix?
The screen wobbles and we go back to the previous scene.
I remember being incredibly proud of this. I remember thinking it was very funny, and very clever, like a Steven Moffat Doctor Who or something. As soon as he had read out this scene, Rufus said “So he’s just given away the time travel device to his past self. So he doesn’t have it any more.” I had to think very hard about this.
“But now his past self has it,” I explained.
“Yes, but he’s about to immediately go back and give it to himself. So it’s not only a Boostrap Paradox, it’s also completely pointless. The time travel device is stuck in a 30-second loop and never goes anywhere, so he never gets to use it.” I was crushed. I tried to work out whether it could work if he initially has two time travel devices, and gives his past self one of them, but it was then pointed out that the second one therefore has to appear from nowhere. I suggested maybe starting with three and giving away two, but that didn’t work either – same problem. This entire scene was very frustrating, as I remembered it as the creative high-point of the script, along with the scene where Damien tries to impress a woman by setting off a Newton’s cradle, but all the silver balls immediately fall off and roll all over the floor so he picks them up and staggers over to a cupboard and opens the door to put the balls in, but it contains hundreds of other silver balls that all fall out onto his head.
I could go on and on, but you’ll have the full podcast episode for that. The resolution of how he actually solves the mystery of the missing mayor is particularly stupid. I’d love to say that I learned a lot from writing it, but I think actually I didn’t really learn anything from it until I reread it this week, at which point it was way too late for any of those lessons to count for much. I can’t exactly call up BBC Writersroom now and say “Sorry about that, that was a crazy thing to send you.”
As I read, I kept looking for clues that I had actually written it longer ago than I initially thought, and that it had emerged from a time when I really knew nothing about comedy writing whatsoever – maybe I wrote it at uni, or in my very first years of doing stand-up? Then I found a scene where Damien tries to prove to an airline pilot (who is dressed as a pirate for some reason) that he can travel in time by going back to the day of Prince’s death, and afterwards says “See that’s pretty impressive, because that was quite a while ago now,” meaning it must date from late 2016 at the very earliest. So I was 27 when I wrote this. If I had died at 27 then this script would have to sit alongside Electric Ladyland and Nevermind and Back To Black as artistic achievements made by members of the 27 Club, and I don’t think it would have compared favourably with them. (Your mileage may vary, of course. I personally don’t much care for Nirvana).
A Cool New Thing In Comedy – You’ve got two more nights to see my favourite show of this year’s Fringe, Luke McQueen’s Comedian’s Comedian, at Soho Theatre! I think it’s nearly sold out. Probably will be sold out by the time I send this out, but I can’t be bothered to think of something else to include here because I love this show. If you missed it, maybe keep an eye out for it in case it comes back?
What’s Made Me Laugh The Most – Honestly, it was realising the mistake I’d made in that time travel scene. Could not believe it.
Book Of The Week – I’m reading How To Be An Artist by Jerry Saltz, because I’m considering delving a bit further into the “Artist” character from my show this year – partly to see if I can explore that idea of adapting the show into a feature script, partly to see if I could make some sketches about him, we’ll see. I just think there’s some stuff to mine there, so I’m re-reading this excellent book of rules and provocations to see if it gives me some specifics I could respond to with him.
Album Of The Week – With The Beatles. I realised I’ve never listened to the Beatles’ early albums, because everybody says you can just start with Rubber Soul and then cover the early stuff with a best-of. Turns out they’re right! Don’t get me wrong, this stuff’s fun. It’s jolly! But it also sounds like a million other things you’ve already heard. I’m sure it was very groundbreaking at the time.
Film Of The Week – Ticket To Paradise, a very silly 90s/00s-style romcom about Julia Roberts and George Clooney playing bitter divorcees reuniting to try and stop their daughter’s wedding. I’m not gonna claim it’s the best film I’ve ever seen, but do you know what, I had fun! I genuinely miss films like this, they don’t happen much any more.
That’s all for this week! Hope you enjoyed – if you wanted to send the newsletter to a friend, or encourage others to subscribe, I’d hugely appreciate it. Take care of yourselves until next time,
Joz xx
PS If you enjoy this newsletter and want to support my work and enable me to keep writing, you can make a one-off donation to my Ko-Fi account, and it’s very gratefully appreciated!
PPS Thanks as ever to Luke Rollason and Tom Curzon of Stepdads for continuing to let me do my hobby of singing songs from Phantom live onstage in front of a paying audience, we took Underbelly Boulevard by storm last week (photo by Claire Haigh):
