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Jeremy joins a television writing course in the hope of turning his sitcom idea into a money-spinner

By Jeremy Clarke   July 1999

There were 16 of us, plus the two visiting tutors, holed up for a week in an isolated 12th-century thatched farmhouse in north Devon. Miles from anywhere. No television, no radio, no traffic noise; just birdsong and the wind in the trees. Now and then a sleepy-eyed local woman came and dumped a pile of groceries on the kitchen table and disappeared again; otherwise we didn’t see a soul. The only permanent residents were a pair of identical grey cats, whom we deferred to as our hosts.

The course was called Writing TV Comedy, and the tutors were experts in…

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