Heckle Off: Luke Wright vs Joel Stickley

Luke Wright: I think it’s best if I introduce myself first, as no one knows who you are. My name’s Luke Wright and I’m 60% of the show Who Writes This Crap?

Joel Stickley: 60%? Really? Is that what you get when you add up all the set-ups and shit lines?

LW: No, they make up 38% which is your bit.

JS: Have we reserved the remaining 2% for your ego?

LW: 1% for that and 1% for your self-loathing.

JS: And by that point we’ve accounted for your entire fan base.

LW: Shut up. I’m tired. You keep me awake all night with your crying.

JS: You’d only be dreaming of me crying anyway and you know it.

LW: Yeah, that’s one for the wank bank.

JS: This suddenly isn’t so much a heckle off as us airing our dirty laundry.

LW: At least I do my laundry.

JS: Ooh, zing! A household chores gag.

LW: Oh, I’m Joel I use the word “gag” like a real comedian. Steve Bennett from Chortle doesn’t think you’re a real comedian. He thinks you’re “stilted.”

JS: Luckily, I don’t rely on the opinions of strangers to boost my self esteem.

LW: You should. It works. That’s why I’m a happier person than you.

JS: Didn’t someone once say they wanted to rape you in the mouth with a nail gun?

LW: I don’t remember the exact phrasing.

JS: And what was the one you got the other year? “Luke Wright needs sterilising?”

LW: It was “Luke Wright BADLY needs sterilising.” It wasn’t a casual suggestion. It was something that really should have happened a long time ago. My sterilisation was long overdue.

JS: The idea of you contributing to the gene pool was obviously a cause for real concern. You can see why. We don’t want hordes of lanky, moon-faced twats roaming the countryside.

LW: At least there’s a chance of me actually producing offspring.

JS: Yes – freakish, disconcertingly tall and strangely needy offspring.

LW: As opposed to the ginger-bearded, socially retarded phantom offspring you’ll never have and yet cry yourself to sleep over every night until you finally choke to death one morning on your bran flakes. And you’ll be wearing a pair of soiled y-fronts. And they won’t find you for weeks.

JS: And when they do, my face will have rotted, swollen and attained an oddly moonish quality, so that when the paramedics wipe away the maggots and look at it, they’ll say ‘Isn’t that the mediocre poet Luke Wright? Has anyone got a nail gun?’

LW: Why are you being so horrible? You were the best man at my wedding.
JS: And I’ll be the best at mine as well.