Beach Hunks, a sketch troupe who describe themselves as creating ‘raucously sad sketch comedy’, will be performing for the first time at First Draft on Monday night for our April event when the theme is: ‘Nothing Up Our Sleeves‘.
They win the prize for the most surreal guest blog we’ve had since Andrew Williamson‘s ode to Egyptian Reggae.
We Beach Hunks had a tough time writing on the topic of ‘nothing up our sleeves’.
“What does it mean?” asked Michael, in his voice.
“Shut up, Michael,” said Dave, and of course we all fell about laughing. Dave is often coming up with little quips like these which is why he’s such a comedy talent.
After a while we realised that none of us knew what the phrase meant, and wandered the streets asking, until a wise sage told us that it is ‘used to imply that the speaker is not hiding anything’ and to ‘stop crying, all of you’. We stopped crying and rushed back to our drawing room on all fours to ponder the sage’s words.
“How can we write about this topic?” asked Will, lifting his arms so the rest of the Hunks could wash him better. “None of us hide anything from each other!”
“I wouldn’t say we were that close,” said Jack. “Will, watch out, you’re going to get soap in your eyes.”
“I hate bath night,” said Will.
“I’ve got an idea,” said Michael, “why don’t we write down our deepest, darkest confessions, stuff we’ve never admitted to before, all the lies we’ve ever told? And then we’ll be purged of them, and we can live the rest of our lives free from the shackles of deceit?”
“Shut up, Michael,” said Dave, and of course we all fell about laughing, but we ended up doing it anyway. Here are our confessions.
I didn’t actually know where that suspect went, I just wanted the policeman to be proud of me.
Banksy’s actually a great artist, but every time he does some graffiti I go over it with some heavy-handed bullshit.
I played ‘got your nose’ with a baby then dropped his nose then found a different nose and gave it that and now he’s eight and people are asking questions.
Anal Sex wasn’t named after my buddy, Alan Sex. Nothing’s named after that guy.
When I spilt that lemonade in your living room I said I was sorry. I wasn’t sorry. Fuck your weak ass carpet.
I’m not the illest rapper in the game. That’s Lil Emphysema.
It doesn’t kill fascists. It’s a guitar. At best it gives them a mild concussion.
When I showed you guys that certificate I got for Good Sex-Havin’, that wasn’t actually awarded by Obama. There is no Obama.
A giraffe is not a nosy horse.
I once convinced a woman in a bar that I wrote ‘Stomp’ (both true and easier than you think).
I confidently say ‘I’m the guy who made that’ whenever I see a cloud, but I’m just trying to impress you.
I told my wife that her dress didn’t make her look fat. I didn’t mention that it made her look phat. She had to do so many rap battles that day.
I am username “elitetroll” on many Gaming and Sci-Fi forums. I’m sure you’ve heard of me and have been ELITETROLL’D before.
I created the website ‘Big Booty Babes’ and filled it with, at best, medium booties. Now the whole booty market is in disarray.
I was listening to a Rhianna song and she kept asking ‘what’s my name?’ and I knew but I didn’t tell her.
I go around the town legally renaming all the cats, so their owners get their names wrong but don’t know.
I actually think lots of businesses are like show business.
I once pretended to listen to a friend talk about Dr. Who for a good 5 minutes. I nodded my head in interest twice.
There actually is enough room to swing a cat in my house, I just didn’t want people to know what I do on Thursdays.
I wasn’t really at the diseased dick clinic yesterday, I just wanted you guys to think I was cool enough to get a dick disease.
I haven’t been sleeping with your wife, Will. I just panicked when you asked me what I did this weekend.
The government gives me money for ordering takeaway to the Iranian embassy in London on an hourly basis.
My grandfather isn’t the original MGM Lion.
My tear ducts are made of clay, which is why my tears are basically brown water and when I used to cry my dad would go “OH NO HERE COMES BROWN TOWN”. It was fucking horrible.
Fire Island isn’t home to anthropomorphic fires. I shouldn’t have gotten your hopes up.
I haven’t invented time travel, I just have a really old twin who loves pranks.
There wasn’t a spooky monster in my cousin’s closet. I don’t know what killed him.
After we’d read the last confession aloud, the fire was sputtering out in the grate and a low April moon hung in the sky.
“But I thought we never hid anything from each other!” Will wept, still nude.
“Clearly that has not been the case,” intoned Jack gravely. “We are all guilty of audacious treachery and lies.”
“But how are we going to continue as a sketch group?” asked Dave. “I thought we were best buds but it turns out we are no more than strangers!”
“I guess even the best buds are strangers, deep down, after all,” said Michael. “Our famous sketch group chemistry is nothing more than a sham.”
There was silence.
“We’re still going to do the gig on Monday, aren’t we?” asked Dave.
“Oh yeah, I’m sure it’ll go really well,” we all said. Then we all high-fived each other. Cause you can’t keep best buds down! See you at the show guys!
Join us for our April event, Nothing Up Our Sleeves, at The Castle Hotel on Monday night