And so it began.  After knocking seven bells of shit out of each other they agreed to sit down with a nice glass of mead and discuss a way of creatively channelling their mutual hatred of the other.  Outside the sun had long since been ordered to bed by her father, a large, bright, rotund figure whose sexy shape filled the frosty skies.  It was the moon ok!  The sun’s dad was the moon!  Got that?  Right.  The chances were uncanny this night.  It wasn’t long before both found they had a mutual interest in music.  Gareth, a guitarist with a band of minstrels from the heights of Durham, and Richard, a vocalist from the murky marshes of Broad Ford came up with a cunning plan that would change one or two people’s lives forever.  Idiotbox was born this night.

Gaz and Rick embarked on a crusade, scouring the land for a lean and handsome crew.  A Serbian traveller, whose skills were legendary, became the first addition to the band.  He kicked, screamed, flailed and moaned but succumbed when the pair offered him an Ali G hat for his troubles.  Off they set again, this time in search of Jesus of Buttershaw.  They had heard dark tales of how The Jesus of Buttershaw blended into the shadows of the Woods of Judy only ever leaving the moist, dank, leech ridden forest to rip the heads off passing virgins and devour the carcasses.  Actually we found him at home playing guitar hero, which was nice.  Spot of luck there methinks.

This was the way it was...  Until one sunny Saturday morning Richard was drawing a bath when Gareth pounced in.  “Jesus and the Serbian have vanished!” he sang.
“Why did you sing that then?” Rick asked.
“Don’t know,” started Gareth, “I didn’t even know I could sing” he finished.  Anyway, so this meant that they must now either go and find our missing friends or find someone else.  They opted to find someone new in case our friends had been taken somewhere evil and they would have to fight dragons and shit to get them back.

The search was futile; all they found were pound shops.  Was this to be the end of Idiotbox?

As the two boys sat silent by a lovely river somewhere lovely, Gareth suddenly piped up, “I know a man who makes a beat with his fists.  If we ask him to join us doing what he does best, I will play the deep guitar!”
“Brilliant,” said Rick, “but don’t you think this might keep happening?”
“Yeah, probably” whispered Gareth forlornly.
“I have a friend who knows a man with a time machine; we could borrow it and cut out loads of bollocks.” Rick suggested.
“Hell yeah!” Gaz shouted in an american (with a small a) accent.
“Erm, we’ll have none of that sort of talk mister” said Rick.
“Sorry” came a dejected reply.  Gareth secretly loved america and all its food and lights and sidewalks and faucets and stuff.  He dare not speak of it though, not to Rick anyway.  If he did, Rick would surely kill his head off.

So off they went with a trumpety trump to find Sir Cliff Richards, the man with the time machine.  They found Sir Cliff a bit worse for wear on Heroin and had to wait three hours for him to come down enough to explain how to use the date clock.  They set the date for January 2009!

How different the world looked on the other side, they thought.  As they wandered around they were horrified to see that Delius had gone, horrified again to see that McRory’s had gone and horrified once more to see that Forster Square had been bombed.  Though they did stumble upon one bit of good news: Rio’s had gone!  They both let out a loud “Hurrah!”  They decided to abandon the full tour and get on with looking for the rest of the band.  Off they ran to the Idiotbox, which rested on a grassy knoll, to meet the new improved band.

As they approached they noticed a solitary figure atop a mound, pounding out a strange beat with its tiny fists.  It was a barf, a little spiky haired barf with long legs and a pointy beard.  “Hello Little Barf,” said Rick.  From that point on the little barf never shut up!  It talked and talked and talked.  They resisted the urge to kill it with a big gun and instead asked it to join them in their quest.  The little fellow agreed but informed them that he was from the land of Hullcity and so might have a slight problem getting across at times and then further pointed out that it was a £30 round trip for future reference.  So that was that.  Now there were three. 

A plan was hatched to find yet another two strings to the bow.  A contest for all the minstrels in the North was to be held at Voltage Castle the following Saturday.  The turnout was astounding; astounding in a bad way that is.  Two people turned up.  Rebecca and Adrian were a Dollar tribute act from the Fair on Brigweatherhouse Green.  Although they were the only two contestants to turn up they were perfect in every way.  Except the getting up in a morning way, they were definitely not the best in that way.  But in every other respect they were perfect.  And that, as they say, was that.  Idiotbox were back...


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