SISTERS SARAH AND LIZZIE PERFORM INAPPROPRIATE SKETCHES IN A BID TO WIN THEIR MOTHER’S ATTENTION.
We are very excited to announce that this year we will be collaborating with the genius that is Nathan Dean Williams to become new sketch super -group THRICE.
We will also be performing separately in Colin Hoult’s ‘Real Horror Show’ and new play ‘Dirty Laundry’ written by Rachel Hirons.
Check out our gig page for more information about our upcoming Edinburgh shows and follow us on facebook and twitter so we can keep you up-to-date.
Thrice facebook page: https://www.facebook.com/pages/Thrice-a-sketch-group/123391294515884
Thrice twitter: @THRICEcomedy
Real Horror Show twitter: @littleyoghurts
Dirty Laundry twitter: @AllDirtyLaundry
A Spotter’s Guide to Sevenoaks…
As we work towards building our profile as comedians, there are those that have already achieved that success through their eccentricities alone. No promoters, no £10,000 Edinburgh show. Just a real knack at getting themselves noticed. Every town has at least one and here are those people we were lucky enough to encounter in our home town Sevenoaks.
Andy Glasses – Known by everyone and supposedly the world record holder for the longest living survivor of water on the brain. It is truly inspiring to see that his condition has not hindered his pursuit of underage girls. If only they could see past his massive glasses.
Pigeon Man- Lives in a house that is in such a state of disrepair that it has become a sanctuary for pigeons. Conspiracists might argue that he’s actually running the world’s largest carrier pigeon intelligence centre. Questionable only for the fact that he has to constantly hold up his trousers to save them from falling down.
Rubber Sheets Man – When Sarah worked in a photocopying shop during her gap year, she was lucky enough to type up a letter for this sweaty palmed gentleman. The letter was addressed to ‘The Rubber Sheet Society’ and praised highly their fantastic range of colourful yet wipeable rubber sheets. As she typed, he browsed a lingerie website and proceeded to pleasure himself with his half leather gloved hand, which he considerately concealed with his flat cap so as not to cause offence.
Sucked in Face Lady – Legend has it she killed her husband and buried him in the garden where she has also been spotted shitting. To add insult to injury she wears an offensive amount of blusher.
Recycling Man - Those in the political know will be familiar with this man’s attempts to run for MP. Those less in the know will be more familiar with his mission to collect every discarded can and bottle in Sevenoaks. His preferred method of transport is a vintage shopping trolley and he can often be seen dressed in rags struggling up the high street with his heavy load. One might question how he can afford to spend his days trawling the streets for rubbish. The answer lies in is his inherited millions, surely making him the ultimate secret millionaire.
Debbie and Michael – The classic love story: She was a patient. He was a security guard. Their cross- eyes met across a crowded ward and they were married, in spite of the stigma they faced. When Lizzie, aged 13, worked in the post office, Debbie disclosed to her that she had a bit of a sore throat from drinking Pledge. She then added ‘I know it’s used for cleaning, I just didn’t think it would hurt me.’ She also confided that she had to take a ’special pill’ to stop her having Michael’s baby. Let’s hope she’s still taking those pills.
These of course are the A-list eccentrics of Sevenoaks, known and avoided by all.
Here’s the B-list: Marvin the Masturbator, Big John, Pissed Up Kev, No Shoes Man, Plastic Bag Man, Grumbling Feather’s Hat Man and Hakamesar Gypsy Woman.
Please Note: Not everyone in Sevenoaks is mental. Some of us have gone on to have respectable careers performing sketches about pig rape and paedophilia.
Names have NOT been changed to protect identities.
The Worst Job I Ever Had…
Hello, we’re sisters Sarah and Lizzie (aka Toby) and we would like to tell you about the summer we sold fish out the back of a van.
It was the holidays and despite Sarah’s protest that all the jobs in Kent had gone, Mum was still demanding rent. In her moment of desperation she rang the number below the title ‘Do You Need Cash?!!!’ and arranged an interview at a farm, still clueless as to what it was for. On her arrival she was greeted by wolf whistles and watched as grown men kicked a block of dry ice around a yard. She wandered into an office plastered with pictures of naked women, some of which had been hastily covered with post-it notes. After filling out her details, Dave the boss informed her she could start selling fish the next day. He then went on to brag about the time he’d sold a dodgy lobster to the Mafia of Kemsing village and was threatened with a gun, having given ‘The Godfather’ food poisoning (or as he liked to call him ‘The Codfather’).
Not for the first time, Lizzie was happy to take a job selling fish off the back of Sarah’s efforts, living up to what her music teacher had once said, ‘It’s not laziness, it Lizzieness.’
Sarah, having had a head start, was already a favourite of chimp-like Brian, mainly because he liked to pretend to customers that she was his daughter, which seemed to boost sales. Lizzie joined lobster-hat-wearing Garry, who after every unsuccessful sale sang ‘Don’t worry, be happy’. He had a heavily pregnant 14 year old and proudly assumed the role of supportive parent by booking a lads holiday surrounding the due date. The final member of the fish selling convoy was Dudley 5’3¾’’ and the real Del Boy of the group. He boasted top prawn sales of the year in the South East, a result of his winning phrase ‘De-veined, De-shelled, Delicious.’ Who could resist?
Our job involved knocking on doors and coaxing people to the van. Our patter went something like this:
Us: ‘Hello, I’m just doing the rounds with the fish man, just wondering if you like fish at all?’
Unsuspecting pensioner: ‘I’m not really a big fish eater’
Us: ‘that’s OK we’ve got little fish as well.’
This greeting became so ingrained in our minds that for two years after, just a simple ‘hello’ could trigger off the urge to sell someone fish.
A good day consisted of a burger for breakfast on the side of the motorway, or if it rained, a chinese in the shopping centre. Three hours of knocking. Sell twenty boxes to a country wife. Quick stop at the betting shop, where Brian would blow his profits. And then a shandy.
A bad day consisted of seven hours of knocking. Not one box sold. The men resenting the fact that they had to drive us to the nearest toilet because we didn’t have the capacity to go against the wall (leading to self-inflicted dehydration). And Garry deciding it was time to have a heart to heart about his Father-in-law’s terminal cancer.
All in all, despite the daily humiliation of having doors slammed in your face, hanging out with grown men instead of your friends and sweating in a van full of fish, we are yet to find another job where a Big Mac for breakfast is acceptable.