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The Return Of The Bay Area Brit

     Well, well, well. You might wonder where The Bay Area Brit has been since I last updated three months ago? If you haven’t been wondering, then piss off. You don’t deserve to hear my tale of mystery, intrigue, and dare I say it…merrrderrr!

     Have I been trying to restore British credibility by single-handedly stopping billions of gallons of oil gush into the Gulf?

     Am I recovering from my amazing performance in the World Cup Final where I scored seven goals against Brazil? All the while managing to stay out of the crosshairs of a team of Israeli snipers camped in the stands following orders to carry out my assassination?

            Some writers from across the pond are completely capable of writing great works in spite of their lifelong disabilities: Wheelchair bound supergenius/Dalek, Stephen Hawking, for one. Lord Byron, whose epilepsy and bouts of severe depression were likely a far worse distraction to his art than his affinity for the green pastis known as absinthe. Lastly, Christy Brown, the Irishman with Cerebral Palsy wrote his autobiography with nowt but his left foot. Man that big toe could spin a yarn.

       Sadly, I am not one of these types of writers. I need to be well-rested, my coffee has to be hot, the cushion on my chair just fluffed up so, and the aches, pains, and stresses of daily life must be kept within a distance of a three hundred yards of me as per the restraining order.

      And so specifically what ailed you, Mr. Bay Area Brit?

      Apparently my immune system couldn’t decide which 19th Century British disease it wished to eventually perish at the hands of; and so, like an annoyingly indecisive customer at a crowded bar, it asked for a taste of a few different diseases so that it would eventually make the right choice.

       It all started with an episode of The Scunthorpian Fits, quickly followed by The St. Vitus Dance. After that I was hobbled by The Gout and then The Gangrene, (a side-effect brought about by the amputation of both of my feet in accordance with my doctor’s wishes). I of course don’t have a doctor, and so I crawled to a carpenter, who took them both off at the ankles with a hacksaw for a meager ten dollars, so long as he could keep the size elevens as souvenirs. I believe he said he was looking for bookends for his collection of hardbacks on podiatry and foot-fetishism. I agreed to let him have the feet, distracted by the thought of all the money I would save by never having to again purchase shoes, and the time I would save by clipping only ten nails on my body every other week instead of twenty. Genius!
However, the gangrene sent me into a pitch of the chills, which swiftly swung towards a boiling fever, made worse by a bout of The Pox: of both the French Guyanan and the Chik’n variety. As you know, The Bay Area Brit is a vegetarian and would never succumb to the real Chicken Pox…just a gluten-soy-like substitute, which the leeches (that I’d purchased to get rid of The Scurvy) enjoyed thoroughly.

     All in all it was a dramatic and long-suffering few months. The full-body bandages are now off, and I no longer resemble an Egyptian mummy, or daddy, as the case may be. In short: I’m back.

     And there was much rejoicing.

     The Bay Area Brit will now be updated once a week every Monday.

     Frankly, not many of you have the attention span to keep up with the three or four blog updates that I was churning out every week, and since I’m not getting paid for entertaining you, it’s just better that way. Besides, The Leprosy has slowed down my typing speed to that of a Valium-riddled sloth’s post-dinner swim across a river of molasses.

      Thanks to everyone who asked for more of The Bay Area Brit, your love and continuing support is greatly appreciated.

      See you soon.

Oh My God They Killed Matt!…You Bastards!

      As some of you may be aware, The Bay Area Brit spent the first three-quarters of his life being known as “Matt Stone.” But in 1997 a life-altering event occurred, after which, nothing would be the same.

I always thought I had a cool name, you know, kind of private detective-like: “Matt Stone P.I.”

In the mid-Nineties I decided I wanted to be a cartoonist. I entered a couple of cartoon competitions and won–most notably the top prize at The San Francisco Bay Guardian’s annual contest. I drew for a local monthly music newspaper for two years and kept improving at my craft in the hope that one day I might become a syndicated cartoonist.

     After many, many rejections, King Features eventually wanted to publish some of my cartoons, and did in newspapers from San Francisco-to-Orlando. Matt Stone the cartoonist from Britain was finally making things happen across the pond.

And then this happened…..

Trey Parker and another man (also named) Matt Stone created South Park, a cartoon about four kids living in Colorado.

What the Hell?!?!

      My phone started ringing off the hook.
“Oh, my God, Matt, I just saw your show! It was fantastic.”

“That’s not me.”

“I just loved the fat kid…’Screw you guys, I’m going home.’ Just amazing, Matt! Oh, and I love the part where you kill Kenny every week. ‘YOU BASTARDS!’ Hilarious, Matt, just great. I knew you’d make it. “

“It’s not me. I haven’t made it.”

“Oh, are you sure?”


“Hunh, well that’s weird. It’s totally your sense of humor.”

“I know, but it’s not me.”

        Friends and ex-girlfriends couldn’t wait to tell me how great my show was. It sucked. I hated it. This faker, this pretender to my throne, this complete and utter bastard is running around and making cartoons using my name.

      Oooooh… I wanted to hate it, I really did, and when I finally sat down to watch it, I seethed like mad for all of about a minute. Then I started laughing and laughing and laughing.

     So loving South Park was all well and good, but I needed to change my name; after all despite the fact that I had cartoons published well before South Park came along, he was now “Matt Stone” and I would have to find another name to publish under.

       For a while I went by Matt Poe Stone and then M.P. Stone but eventually landed on Matty Stone. I have many friends whom have called me “Matty” through the years, and I kind of like it.

I embrace my “Mattyness” for you. I even have the website:


so I must be “THE” Matty Stone. Even though it’s taken a backseat to this site.

Matty Stone: The Bay Area Brit, trying to make a buck and a name for himself in the U.S.A.

Matt Stone as you knew him is gone, but Matty Stone lives.