Oh. My. Bloody. God. Now I certainly didn’t expect that. If you’re one of my three regular readers who didn’t come here via the Grauniard, you probably wouldn’t know that this august journal has just given me one thousand pictures of the queen for operating the Best British Weblog of 2002.
So, what am I going to do with my filthy lucre? Money fights with Mariah Carey? A home for destitute otters? Low-to-medium class call girls? Nothing so glamorous. I’m buying a new boiler for Scaryduck mansions, unless somebody nice from British Gas is reading this and they can give me a famous-for-five-minutes discount for saying how great their service has been. Oh, and some bandwidth. And a new hall carpet.
All I’ve done is stick together some tales about my life and the incredibly mind-numbingly stupid things I’ve done. Thanks to the judges who thought my writing was good enough to win the prize. Special thanks really ought to go to my employers for getting me interested in this interweb thing in the first place. I never thought I'd say this, but fantastic people to work for.
And If anybody out there thinks they recognise themselves in a story and want to sue, it’s not you. Honest. And YES, some of the tales aren't exactly 100% factually true. I “jazzed them up a bit”, otherwise it wouldn’t have been funny. It's called poetic licence. Just ask Roy Keane, he might even know what it means.
"Filthy Lucre Update"
It's been a bit mad today. Sorry if the blog's taken ages to load, it's all the extra traffic, and I am peddling as fast as I can to keep up with demand. And apologies again if you've tried to get into www.scaryduck.com and found it down, that's what happens when you're on geocities and the whole world comes to call. Ironically, I'm moving to paid webspace very soon, but not soon enough. Why not visit my Portland Helicopter Campaign Site instead, a local issue dear to my heart, but rather shorter on laughs.
Updates may be scarce in the next couple of days - there's a wedding, the Great Kitchen Fitting, Scaryduckling's birthday and the attentions of Her Majesty's Press to deal with. Argh. What a life.
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