I’ve just woken up on a couch in Brighton. There’s a bottle of something toxic and terrible called Tuaca lying next me. Some brandy, orange and vanilla number. 35% proof. Empty.

My head hurts. What the fug happened last night? Where the fug am I?

I scan the flat and it looks like something outa a war film. Fatigues, helmets, a Beretta. And a strap-on udder.

Right, I’m chez Apocalypse Cow. If you remembers rightly, Cow is a cross dressing Bull. Ex army (Special Bull Service).

He’s now down in Brighton doing door work. At a place called the Bull’s Dog. Lots of Hairy Marys and Butch Bears. Big on leathers and chains. Not so big on motorbikes. Apocalypse keeps the peace and deals happiness and light from his strap-on udder. Treats from his teats.

OK. So I know where I am.  But that’s all. No memory at all of what went before. I needs a drink. Cow must have some Stella. Or a pick me up treat from a teat.

I walks into the hall and stops in me tracks.

Jesus fuck!!! I am confronted by a giant Muscle Mary. In full Village People leathers and handlebar moustache. He’s staring straight at me. Don’t like this. He’s a big unit and he don’t look too happy.

I give the boy the eye. He gives me the eye back.

Generally I don’t like a kick off first thing in the morning.  But needs must. I is not going to get Tuaca’d by some Buftie Bunny before breakfast. I feign left. He feigns right. I feign right. He feigns left.

Fuck this. I charge. SMASH. I hit what feels like a wall and I is covered in shards of glass.

“What the hell are you doing?” shouts Apocalypse Cow coming outa the kitchen. “You just run into my vintage full length mirror! That’s seven years bad luck, man.”

I pull bits of mirror outa my falsie handlebar moustache. I doff my leather cap to the cow with a ‘what did happen last night?’ look in me eye.

“Yeah.” He says. “You got right on it at the Bull’s Dog after hours. Really joined the party, dude.”

I grab a Stella off of him and give him the eye. We agree to never mention this again.

After me Dragons Dead pitch, I really got the bug for developing new TV show ideas. ‘Formats’ as we calls them in the trade.

Ain’t that hard. Just have a scroll through the Sky Digital menu and you’ll see a lot of fuck stupid  ‘formats’. And these are the ones that have got themselves made!

So I’ve got me an idea for a new reality TV gameshow. A bit of urban gritty survivalism. Calling it ‘Urban Catchy Junky’.

Like most great reality TV titles, it sounds a bit sensationalist. But actually it’s just a mighty clever play on words to get the Daily Mail voting public talking.  They’ll think its about narcotic nasties when really it’s about fast food.

The ‘format’ is based on a scenario I knows only too well.

It’s chucking out time at the local boozer. You spent all yer readies on lagers. Not a penny left. And now you’re fuckin’ starving. So starving that you would kill for a kebab, a ruby, a crispy fired duck, a deep fried pepperoni double plus!!!

In fact, you would kill for any takeaway you could lay yer hands on! And that, my friends, is what the Educated Erics of the TV world call the dramatic ‘axis’ of me show.

Two teams of life’s losers are recruited from the audience of the Jeremy Kyle show. They are fed a large quantity of strong lager down the pub by the Tarquins from the TV production company.

Enter our celebrity team leaders – Bear Grylls for the Blues, Ray Mears for the Reds. Their mission is to lead their team of pissed up no hopers into the local housing estate to beg, steal, borrow or mug any fast food that crosses their path.

The winner is the team that catch themselves the best meal. As judged by Gordon Pansy Ramsay. Late night hunter gatherer TV.

Team Red track, chase and rob Pizza Inferno’s delivery boy of his payload. A large Chicken Supreme and a 2L Coke. Yummy scrummy!  Team blue bum rush Del E Tandoori and relieve the gaff of a couple of Vindaloos and 20 Poppadoms. Hot shit! Then both teams descend on the Pagoda Palace and a right old Ting Tong Ding Dong breaks out.

Meanwhile, back in the studio, Ant and Dec laugh how Bear Grylls has just been kicked in the prawn crackers. “Its all going a bit Dim Sum” they jest. Gordon agrees.

Urban Catchy Junky. Must see TV you surely agree.

I’m pitching an idea to Dragons Den that occurred to me on the last morning of Rabbit Food Awareness Week.

MacDominos. A Deep Fried Pizza Franchise.

“And where did you get the inspiration for that idea?” asks the Simon Jones tosser, a little bit too sarcastically for his own future health and safety.

“I tell you where I got ‘that’ idea, you mug.” I say fronting him out. “I ate four of Rod Rat’s special ‘hash’ browns last Friday during Rabbit Food Awareness Week and 5 hours later I was still as high as I kite.

Then I got a massive attack of the munchies.

So I floated down to me local chippie and, you know what, not even several battered burgers and battered sausages could fill the hole. What I really needed was a deep fried pizza. A big and battered Pepperoni Plus.

Short of nipping up to Scotland for the night, this was not an option. So I realised there was this big old gap in the market.

And that is why I am proposing my idea for a new fast food franchise. MacDominos.  Scottish innovation engineered by Eastend entrepreneurism. That’ll be my jingle. Like it?”

My pitch is done. The Duncan Bannatyne prick has turned bright red and gives me the eye. The fucker thinks he’s left the back streets of Jockland well behind him.

“And why on earth do you think there’s a market for deep fried pizzas in this day and age, my friend?” He sneers.

“Extra strong skunk.” I reply without missing a beat. “The two go hand in hand. You people wanna give it try?”

I pull out a pre-prepared Walthamstow Wanger and walk towards Kelly Hoppen. She obviously ain’t seen one that big before and screams for security.

Oh dear.

You see there’s my kinda security and there’s yer poncey middle classed TV kinda security. A big bunny mismatch.

Bish. Bash. Bosh.

So now I’m pitching an idea for a new TV ‘franchise’. Its called ‘Dragons Dead’.