Your Own Wedding Entrance Music
A completely original piece written around your story, your relationship, and the exact moment everyone turns round to look.
A practical, ridiculous, mostly legal fundraising page for 1 Missed Call, a new one-man musical heading to Edinburgh Fringe. Some of these are useful. Some of these are stupid. A worrying number are both.
Choose a service, click the booking button, pay securely through Square, then I’ll get in touch to sort the details. Anything involving me being somewhere in person has travel added separately.
The respectable end of the page. Still slightly unhinged, but in a way you can explain to your family.
A completely original piece written around your story, your relationship, and the exact moment everyone turns round to look.
A bespoke first dance song based on your story, your style, and the parts of your relationship you’re happy for guests to know about.
A gentle custom lullaby written for your child. Sweet, sentimental, and probably more emotional than anyone was prepared for.
A custom comedy song about your family, friends, workplace, club, team, or that one person who has absolutely earned it.
Your voicemail, but with the energy of a breakfast show that has had too much coffee.
A custom entrance theme for your football team, darts team, pub quiz team, or friend group with delusions of grandeur.
A musical theatre villain anthem for the workplace menace in your life. Names can be changed to protect mortgages.
For retirements, anniversaries, memorials, or someone who deserves more than a card from the petrol station.
Big drums. Big emotions. Possibly a key change. Your ordinary life treated with completely unnecessary scale.
A romantic gesture with significantly more thought than panic-buying flowers and pretending that was the plan.
A custom-written story starring your child, with all the magic, mischief, and chaos they would probably bring anyway.
A full original rock anthem celebrating fatherhood, cargo shorts, thermostat anxiety, and checking if the back door is locked.
For people who understand that joy is important, and sometimes joy is paying someone to write a ballad about your dog.
I will phone your mate pretending to be a local radio presenter and congratulate them on literally anything.
A deeply emotional original song about your dog, because they have carried this family emotionally for years.
Cinema-level drama for the middle aisle, the bakery section, and the trolley with one wheel fighting for independence.
Theme music. Announcer intro. Completely unnecessary levels of confidence.
For when “sorry” simply isn’t theatrical enough, especially when it was absolutely your fault.
Motivational music for your training arc, even if the arc currently involves walking very slowly past Greggs.
I will announce your arrival into a room like you’re headlining a pay-per-view event.
For exams, interviews, dates, difficult conversations, or opening an email that begins “just circling back”.
A heartfelt farewell to the washing machine, toaster, kettle or hoover that served your family faithfully.
A dramatic TV-style recap of your love story, including plot twists, recurring characters, and unresolved storylines.
Milk. Bread. Bananas. Destiny. The weekly shop has never sounded so urgent.
Anything involving me physically appearing somewhere includes travel. Emotional damage may also apply.
I will text your ex “hope you’re well” while you sit beside me and experience immediate regret.
I will stand in a queue so you don’t have to. Price depends entirely on weather, boredom, and nearby snack options.
Positive reinforcement matters. Especially when there was only mild kerb contact.
Your kebab, pizza or chow mein presented like fine dining. Napkins folded with unnecessary reverence.
I will loudly pretend I know what I’m doing while assembling furniture. Confidence included. Competence not guaranteed.
No one should face the marketplace section alone. Especially when tealights start making sense.
I will stand nearby holding the torch while you pretend to understand what’s happening under the bonnet.
For family gatherings where you need someone else to look trapped beside you.
A practical service for people who still own seven mysterious chargers and one cable from 2008.
Your internet deserves better branding. So do your neighbours, whether they like it or not.
I will silently judge your expired batteries, mystery keys and takeaway menus from closed restaurants.
I’ll tell you what’s still edible and what has become a science project with ambitions.
I will act like your trainer from a 2004 sports movie. You will do one more rep. Emotionally, at least.
Daily motivation for one week, whether you asked for it or not. You technically did, because you paid.
Your life admin rewritten like a hostage negotiation. Firm, but ultimately for your own good.
I will spend the day making you sound far more important than you are. Diary management energy included.
I will help you move house while dramatically complaining throughout. Pizza is not optional.
I will stand beside you while you finally make the phone call you’ve been avoiding since last autumn.
I will nod seriously and occasionally say “right…” at moments that feel educationally significant.
Need to leave somewhere? I’ve got you. One urgent-sounding call, delivered with commitment.
I have absolutely no training in this area, but I do have opinions and access to words like “warm neutral”.
I will arrive and behave as though you are the key decision maker. Clipboard available on request.
I will carry exactly one heavy item during your move and remind everyone about it for the rest of the day.
I will water your plants and give them the kind of encouragement normally reserved for underdog sports films.
You can do this. I believe in you. Also, that free trial ended eight months ago.
I will react to your homemade lasagne like a food critic discovering flavour for the first time.
I will come to your house, look at something broken, breathe in sharply, and say “yeah… that’ll probably be expensive.”
One week of me checking whether you’ve actually done the thing. Gentle at first. Increasingly disappointed thereafter.
We won’t know what we’re doing, but we’ll look determined and leave with at least one unnecessary spirit level.
For dates, interviews, gym sessions, presentations, or simply leaving the house with purpose.
A respectful send-off for your fallen toaster, microwave, hoover or kettle. Black tie optional.
I will take your barbecue far too seriously and refer to sausages as “the first course”.
Your new air fryer presented like a major technology launch. Friends and family will pretend this is normal.
I will create a spreadsheet for something that absolutely does not need one. Formulas may be used irresponsibly.
You know the one. We both know the one. It has at least three pens that don’t work.
Moral support while you fight for your life against Swedish instructions and one tiny Allen key.
A premium canine affirmation service. They already know, but it’s nice to hear it professionally.
Premium services, because apparently nobody can make small decisions anymore.
I will decide what you’re eating when the conversation has gone in circles for 45 minutes and no one has said anything useful.
I will be the one to finally say “shall we just order something?” so neither of you has to admit defeat first.
I will settle the argument you both created by refusing to choose and then rejecting every suggestion.
A final list of acceptable options, with no further discussion, no “maybe”, and absolutely no scrolling Deliveroo in silence.
I will decide whether you’re genuinely going out or absolutely staying in and becoming one with the couch.
You were going to order it anyway. I’m simply making it official.
Professional encouragement to spend money irresponsibly, delivered with the confidence of someone not checking your bank app.
I will determine tonight’s culinary direction and decide whether cereal counts as dinner. It sometimes does.
You stop scrolling. I choose. You may complain internally, but the decision is final.
I will determine whether the heating goes on. This is legally binding within the household for at least 40 minutes.
I will tell you whether this is useful, complete nonsense, or a cry for help wearing free delivery.
I will determine whether you’re genuinely sick or just being dramatic. This is not medical advice, obviously. Look at the page we’re on.
Decision-making assistance during that terrifying moment when the speaker crackles and your brain abandons you.
I will officially declare takeaway acceptable despite the technically correct but joyless existence of food at home.
I will decide whether it’s socially acceptable to go home now. It usually is.
I will assess your message for accidental aggression, buried resentment, and unnecessary use of “as per my previous email”.