Ext. 11.30am. A large green field, 10 miles in to the Swindon Half Marathon.

Four sheep are watching the thousands of runners go by.

YOUNG SHEEP: What on Earth are the Masters doing?

OLDER SHEEP 1: Blimey, that time already?

YOUNG SHEEP: What time?

OLDER SHEEP 2: Is it really October?

OLDER SHEEP 3: Indeed it is.

YOUNG SHEEP: What’s going on?

OLDER SHEEP 1: Crikey.

OLDER SHEEP 2: Poor buggers.

YOUNG SHEEP: Would somebody PLEASE tell me what’s happening?!

OLDER SHEEP 3: Calm down, little one. It’s the annual herding of the Masters.

YOUNGER SHEEP: The what?

OLDER SHEEP 1: The herding of the Masters.

YOUNG SHEEP: My goodness, the Masters get herded too?

OLDER SHEEP 2: Yep. It’s quite sad, really.

YOUNG SHEEP: What kind of being could possibly be powerful enough to herd the Masters?

OLDER SHEEP 3: Oh, little one, you don’t want to know.

YOUNG SHEEP: I do, I do. Please tell me!

OLDER SHEEP 1: OK, so-

OLDER SHEEP 3: No! He’s too young.

YOUNG SHEEP: I’m not! I’m nearly one!

OLDER SHEEP 1: He needs to know, brother.

OLDER SHEEP 2: We can’t hide it forever.

OLDER SHEEP 3: [Sighs] Very well. I shall tell him.

YOUNG SHEEP: Thank you, thank you!

OLDER SHEEP 3: Yes, yes, little one. OK. Every year, around this time, the Masters are herded up by a strange, mysterious creature know as Charity.

YOUNG SHEEP: Charity…?

OLDER SHEEP 1: Yeah, Charity! I heard it’s a huge, ugly, hairy, wart-ridden beast with six gigantic arms and eight different coloured eyes!

OLDER SHEEP 2: Yeah? Well I heard it’s a flaming, God-like spirit that breathes acid and crushes souls in its vice-like grip just because it CAN.

YOUNG SHEEP: [Looking nervous] Really?

OLDER SHEEP 3: No one quite knows. But whatever it is, it’s an unsavoury being. Every year it preys on innocent figures, steals their money and forces them to watch their loved ones complete hideous challenges.

YOUNG SHEEP: Ch…challenges? What kind of challenges?

OLDER SHEEP 3: Like running 13 miles.

OLDER SHEEP 1: I heard Charity makes Masters climb mountains!

OLDER SHEEP 2: Yeah? Well I heard it chucks Masters out of planes!

YOUNG SHEEP: Really?!

OLDER SHEEP 3: I’m afraid so. I’ve even heard tales of Charity forcing Masters to live in a bath of baked beans.

YOUNG SHEEP: Dear God. But why? Why does it do it?!

OLDER SHEEP 3: Because it’s a vicious, selfish entity that laughs at the weak.

YOUNG SHEEP: Does…does Charity ever attack sheep?

Silence.

YOUNG SHEEP: Does it…?

OLDER SHEEP 1: Tell him, brother.

OLDER SHEEP 3: I can’t.

YOUNG SHEEP: Tell me what?

OLDER SHEEP 2: You must.

OLDER SHEEP 3: [Sighs] Charity attacked Wise Old Sheep.

YOUNG SHEEP: No! Charity made him-

OLDER SHEEP 3: [Nods] I’m afraid so.

YOUNG SHEEP: [Crying] What happened?

OLDER SHEEP 3: The full story has never been told. However what we do know is it was a cold, rainy day, so Master herded us towards the barn. The weather was horrendous, so we all scrambled as fast as we could to get warm. There was pushing and shoving, and before we knew it, Wise Old Sheep was left behind. It turns out he fell into the fence and got his back legs caught in barbed wire. By the time Master arrived, Charity had ripped his legs off-

A gruff, but booming voice echoes from the shadows. It’s Wise Old Sheep.

WISE OLD SHEEP: Silence!

The four sheep freeze to attention.

OLDER SHEEP 3: We’re sor-

WISE OLD SHEEP: I said, silence!

Wise Old Sheep drags his body from out of the shadows, revealing two shiny wheels where his back legs should be. His fur is patchy, his rump is scarred.

WISE OLD SHEEP: Fill not this boy’s mind with rubbish.

Young sheep looks at his senior, who’s staring back at him.

WISE OLD SHEEP: Charity saved my life.

Wise Old Sheep looks out at the runners as two plodding men make their way towards them.

WISE OLD SHEEP: You must cheer for these warriors.

OLDER SHEEP 3: But-

WISE OLD SHEEP: Cheer! Show some respect.

OLDER SHEEP 1: Baaaaaa!

OLDER SHEEP 2: Baaaaaaaa!

OLDER SHEEP 3: Baaaaaaaaaa!

YOUNG SHEEP: Baaaaaaaaaaa!

Runners #13876 and #13999 slow down.

RUNNER #13876: J…John. Are those sheep…cheering us on?

RUNNER #13999: Shut your face, Kev, I’m knackered.

Kev looks into the eyes of Wise Old Sheep.

Wise Old Sheep nods at Kev’s RSPCA running vest.

Kev nods back and heads towards the finish line.

© Carl Burkitt 2014

The Boy looked in the mirror, studying his jaw. He ran a finger across the smooth, sun-kissed skin that housed the defined structure. As he reached the chin, the Boy attempted to wiggle it left and right but the sturdiness of the bones and tightness of the surrounding muscles prevented such movement. The Boy’s friend looked on nervously as the Boy opened his mouth as wide as he could then slammed it shut, to the satisfactory sound of molars kissing molars.

‘My dear friend,’ said the Boy. ‘I love it.’

‘Really?!’ blurted the friend.

‘Indeed,’ said the Boy. ‘It truly is a magnificent 19th birthday gift.’

The friend punched the air.

‘Well,’ said the friend, pointing at the 27-year-old Man heaped on the floor in the corner of the room. ‘Plenty more where that came from! Anything else of his you’d like?’

The Boy watched as the sad looking Man on the floor stroked his, now, flabby, bearded jaw.

‘How about his hairline?’ said the friend.

The Boy looked at the Man, his thinning curls running further and further away from his elongated forehead.

‘Nah,’ said the Boy, sweeping his thick, wavy locks back, revealing his straight, uncompromising hairline. ‘I had that for Christmas.’

‘So you did,’ said the friend. ‘Old Man! Reveal your stomach!’

The Man lifted up his t-shirt.

The Boy and his friend laughed uncontrollably.

‘Look at all those wispy hairs!’ said the friend. ‘You can barely see his belly button!’

‘Do you want to?!’ said the Boy. ‘It’s probably filled with all sorts of junk.’

‘Yep,’ said the friend, looking closer. ‘Where does all the fluff come from?’

The Boy shrugged and flicked the Man’s stomach. ‘Do you think it will ever stop wobbling?’ he said.

‘Doubtful!’ laughed the friend, as he patted the Boy’s rock hard abs. ‘What was I thinking? How could forgot I got you that for your last birthday.’

The Boy smiled.

‘Well,’ said the friend. ‘There must be something else you want?’

The friend bent the Man’s knee and recoiled as he heard bone crunching on bone.

‘Nope,’ said the Boy, performing squats. ‘They were an Easter gift.’

The friend prodded the pimply, sagging arse of the Man.

‘Nope,’ said the boy, twerking. ‘Got that years ago. A gift for completing my GCSEs, I think.’

The friend grabbed the Man’s crooked nose, avoiding the sprouting hairs.

‘Nope,’ said the boy, fiddling with a pleasingly smooth nostril. ‘Mum and Dad gave me that for cleaning the house.’

The friend grabbed the belt of the Man, pulled his trousers and pants forward and peered inside. ‘Jesus,’ said the friend. ‘You don’t want that.’

‘No worries,’ said the Boy, rubbing his new jaw. ‘This is perfect. Shall we grab a beer?’

‘Aha!’ said the friend. ‘I’ve got it! How about his ability to handle a hangover?’

The Man’s eyes widened.

‘Perfect!’ said the Boy. ‘I’ll take it!’

The Boy and his friend high-fived as they wandered off to get absolutely smashed.

© Carl Burkitt 2014

On Saturday 2nd August 2014 I had the great honour of reading the following piece (written by me) at the wedding of two happy souls.

…

Tim stood in front of Lily’s parents, with butterflies in his bladder and a smile upon his face.

“Mr and Mrs Hope,” he said. “I wish to marry your daughter.”

Mr Hope looked at his wife of 20 years.

“Hold on,” he said. “Marry?”

“Yes,” said Tim. “Marry.”

“OK,” said Mrs Hope. “Why do you wish to marry Lily?”

“Because I love her,” said Tim. “I love the way she smiles, the way she giggles, the way she holds my hand. I love the way she eats a Mars Bar. I love the way she skips down the road with me and stands up to those who say rude things. I love the way she looks at me, the way she makes me feel. I love the way that every single day she’ll find something new to tell me and have an adventure to take me on.”

Mrs Hope smiled.

“Hold on,” said Mr Hope. “That’s all very sweet but you’ve only been together for a few months. Are you even sure Lily wants to marry you?”

“Oh, yes,” said Tim. “We talk about our wedding all the time.”

“You do?” said Mrs Hope. “Go on then, tell us what your wedding will be like.”

“Oh, Mrs Hope,” said Tim. “It’ll be unlike any you’ve seen before: It’ll take place in the middle of summer inside a castle built by monks in 1389, on top of a snow kissed foreign mountain. Lily’s dress will be the one worn by Kate Middleton, whereas I’ll have a gold plated suit. We’d like a little lion cub to carry the rings in and the moment we slide them on our fingers, the sky will explode with fireworks as a jumbo jet, trailing a banner, saying ‘CONGRATULATIONS’ flies over us. Each of our 400 guests will come dressed as a hilarious cartoon character and be treated with two large Domino’s pizzas each, as Lily’s favourite band plays.”

“Wait,” said Mrs Hope. “You plan to get the Black Eyed Peas?”

“Big time,” said Tim.

“Blimey,” said Mr Hope. “Hold on, how on Earth do you expect to pay for all that? Let alone pull it off!”

“Easy,” said Tim. “I’ve always been pretty good at football so not long now and I’ll be breaking into the first team at Man United. They could do with a goalscorer. But, you know, football won’t last forever, so once I finally become a fully qualified astronaut, I’ll be making lots of money from flights to the moon and that.”

“Right,” said Mr Hope. “Do you have a fall back career?”

“Acrobat,” said Tim. “Or, what do you call those people who design LEGO?”

“LEGO designer?” said Mrs Hope.

“Yep,” said Tim. “I could be a LEGO designer.”

“Fine, fine, hold on,” said Mr Hope. “But a career and money isn’t everything. How do you plan to take care of Lily?”

“Honestly?” said Tim, beginning to squirm uncomfortably. “I won’t take care of her.”

“I beg your pardon?” asked Mrs Hope.

“We’ll take care of each other,” said Tim.

Mr and Mrs Hope looked at one another, as Tim gradually grew more and more uncomfortable.

Mrs Hope smiled as her husband, her best friend, the love of her life, squeezed her hand and kissed her on the cheek.

“Timmy,” said Mrs Hope. “If you promise to hold on to the love you have for Lily. If you promise to hold on to the giggles, the laughter, the small things that make her, her. If you promise to hold on to your adventure, your imagination, your lust for life. If you promise to hold on to your innocence, your funny bone, your selflessness and your dedication, then, we promise, in 10 years time – when you are 18-years-old – you are more than welcome to marry our daughter.”

“Really?!” said Tim.

‘“Yes,” smiled Mr Hope.

“Oh, Mr and Mrs Hope, you won’t regret this! Thank you!” said Tim, rearranging his underwear. “Now, please can I go to the little boys’ room? I can’t hold on much longer…”

© Carl Burkitt 2014

NO.86 LIVERPOOL, ISLINGTON, LONDON.

MICHELLE: Pete? Did you pack the cucumber?

PETE: Yep.

MICHELLE: Definitely?

PETE: Definitely. Why?

MICHELLE: Can’t find it in the bag.

PETE: That’s annoying.

MICHELLE: Do you think we left it at the till?

PETE: Probably.

MICHELLE: No worries. I’ll pick one up tomorrow. It’s not important.

SALAD SECTION OF SAINSBURY’S SUPER MARKET, LIVERPOOL ROAD, ISLINGTON, LONDON.

JENKINS: Mullins. Yo, Mullins! Mullins? Oh, Jesus…

MARTINS: What’s up, Jenkins?

JENKINS: MULLINS! Oh, man. I think they took Mullins.

MARTINS: No way…

JENKINS: I turned my back for one second. The animals!

MARTINS: Christ, we gotta tell Chief.

CHIEF: Gotta tell Chief what?

JENKINS: Chief! They’ve…they’ve taken Mullins!

CHIEF: They’ve taken Mullins? Are you sure?

JENKINS: He was next to me, I turned round, and now he’s gone.

CHIEF: God damn. Son of a bitch was two days from retirement.

MARTINS: What do we do, Chief?

CHIEF: Nothing we can do, boys. When it’s your time to be picked, it’s your time to be picked. And today was his time.

JENKINS: Surely we can do something!

CHIEF: Sorry, son. It was his time.

THE ALLEYWAY TWO MINUTES FROM NO.86 LIVERPOOL ROAD, ISLINGTON, LONDON.

MULLINS: I’m getting too old for this shit.

© Carl Burkitt 2014

“Blimey. Put the kettle o… bugger.”

© Carl Burkitt 2014

At 9.30am in Hackney today, I saw a man in his late 50s wearing just a pair of shorts, holding a large pack of chips in one hand and a half full 2 litre bottle of cider in the other. He was singing ‘It’s Not Unusual’ by Tom Jones, at a lamppost.

27-YEAR-OLD CARL

Keep your head down. He’s harmless. But it’s early. Just get to work and cross your fingers he gets to where ever he’s going, safely.

17-YEAR-OLD CARL

Nice life choices, loser! It’s pretty cool knowing I’ll never end up like that.

7-YEAR-OLD CARL

Wow! He’s unlike any big person I’ve ever seen! I wish he was my dad. I can’t wait to grow up and have all the fun I want!

© Carl Burkitt 2014

DUCK #1: Does this mean we get no more-

DUCK #2: Yep.

© Carl Burkitt 2014

“Dinner?” she said.

“Yeah,” he said.

“What do you mean?” she said.

“You know, would you like me to take you to dinner?” he said.

“Why?” she said.

“Because…” he said.

“Because what?” she said.

“Because that’s what happens, isn’t it?” he said.

“Look,” she said. “If you want to sniff my arse, just sniff my arse.”

“Really?” he said.

“Yes,” she said.

“Right,” he said.

“OK,” she said.

It’d been barely two hours since he’d reincarnated as a dog, and to be honest, Roger was bloody loving it.

© Carl Burkitt 2014

She tied my tie and straightened my jacket. She helped me into the car and got me to the church. She held my hand and encouraged my tears. She slowly lowered and dissolved into a memory.

© Carl Burkitt 2014