Middle of Nowhere Productions

MON Productions Team Members

Deon

Born in Sparta at age 40 (well you know what they say…) in 2000BC I was a sickly child and as such was cast out of the city, thrown to my doom over a cliff. Thankfully there was a passing Moose and I was caught in its antlers. The moose took me to the River Styx to make me indestructible but was startled by a random herd of Spanish Antelope and fell in itself. After emerging the indestructible moose showed me all the secrets of moose kind. How to hunt the best grass, how to appear to be made of asparagus when enemies were near, and of course I curled like I have never curled before.

However the sad day came when the Moose and I were parted forever. A wayward atomic bomb struck as we were standing asparagus like to avoid the local hunting party of Tax Commissioners. Even though the Moose was indestructible one part of him hadn’t entered the river, an Achilles Heal almost except that it was his pineal gland. And that is where the atomic bomb struck. Thankfully I was a student of General Bob – General of Philosophy and aware of my own non existence I wasn’t killed (considering that I don’t exist anyway and neither did the bomb). However, as my understanding was from many a comic book, I was transformed into super hero, possessed of the amazing super hero power of being able to transform myself into Cheesefish at any time.

For many a millennia however I denied my super powers, preferring to peddle my wares across Europe. It was a hard life; I was quite surprised how badly sales went of polar bear repellent in Romania, or solar cells in the UK. Finally growing tired of time as a salesman in about 1979 I decided to put my super hero powers to the use they were intended: to win Wimbledon.

I was playing Pat Cash in the finals when, grasping my tennis racket with a cheesy fin I noticed something odd. My opponent was actually William Shakespeare. I thought that his tennis shorts had been excessively puffy. Finally it appeared that my nine doctorates on Comparative Literature and the Language of Sport was about to pay off. So I finished off the last set, winning easily, just so I could have a chat with the bard. Producing a lute from the many guitar cases that the ball boy (whom I later found out possessed the name Don Cornelius) held I played a number for him. All Shakespeare could do was shake his head and reply “Why doth thou possesseth such a pansy instrument?” He immediately removed a harpsisnake from his pocket and the showdown was on.

After years where inner London knew nothing but death, disease and pre-Renaissance music Shakespeare finally decided to call it quits exclaiming that he’d always wanted to be a walrus. Disheartened by the turns of events I decided that a good Charleston would cheer me up. Looking for the largest flag pole in London I danced for many moons, and they all applauded. After a few near misses with aeroplanes and the odd flying Marx Brothers Tribute Band I decided that America was possibly the best place to continue my Charlestoning ways. So the next flying Marx Brothers Tribute Band that passed I grabbed a hold of the leg of the Groucho look alike who exclaimed “Time flies like an arrow, A Flying Marx Brothers Tribute Band flies like a Teenage Cat Girl” to which I had to append “on heat even”.

We arrived in New York the next summer (after having a riveting tour of East New Brunswick where we played to no less than 17 laugh tracks) and I saw the United Nations building in its entire flag induced glory. After fighting off the gaggle of Charlestoners that danced atop Namibia’s flag I had the prime Charlestoning spot in which to hone my trade.

It was fun for the first decade. The press coverage, the admiration of the passing zucchinis, the visiting men in white coats, but as with all good things it had to come to an end. The reason: none other than the Whistle Lollipop. One day I was Charlestoning as per usual when a fellow (who I now know to be Ben) passed underneath me with a travel case that had stickers from sunny Iceland and a sign on his head that said “Will sell soul for money.” He set up shop below me and I noticed that out of everyone who visited over 95% were submarine captains. Such a captive market I had to get into so I came down from my perch and cut Ben a deal. I bought his soul and 50% of his Whistle Lollipop company and we sold to more submarine captains than ever.

One day Matt and Alex turned up, and they were raving about George and Time Travel when I started to launch into my Whistle Lollipop sales pitch about how our Whistle Lollipop will make your submarine 8% more marine than the competitors. However I was enamoured with their chatter about Time Travel and hence we joined forces to travel to a cave in the Andes after Alex assured me that there are 400% more submarine captains in the Andes than New York. After arriving and discovering that there was only an abysmal 230% more submarine captains we decided to make films instead. And thus Middle of Nowhere productions was born.

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