"May's Horrorscopes"

Mystic Megson, the footballing astrologer says "Southampton for the Cup", the bloody fraud. What's in store for you for the month of May? Take our advice - just don't make any firm plans for June.

Aries: The common goldfish. Sweet, harmless, never a threat to life or limb. Still, you’ll have another nine fingers, so I wouldn’t worry if I were you. Just watch out for the flesh-eating bacteria - hours of endless fun!
Lucky chicken: Foghorn Leghorn

Taurus: Destiny sees you held hostage by desperate members of 80’s beat combo “Bucks Fizz”. Whatever happens, just don’t let them leave you alone with Cheryl Baker.
Lucky biro: Bic

Gemini: An encounter with a mad scientist sees your genes spliced with those of Manchester United footballer Ryan Giggs. Just don’t leave the house until your lifetime’s supply of Immac arrives
Lucky DIY warehouse: B&Q

Cancer: With the sun in Uranus, it’s only a matter of time before your boss sees the positive energies you’re putting into your work and gives you the financial rewards you deserve. Only joking. It’s Ebola again.
Lucky country: Qatar

Leo: It’s a lucky, lucky news week for you! You will be appointed the new Iraqi Information Minister.
Lucky cheese: Jarlsberg

Virgo: Is there life after death? Are the living able to communicate with those on the other side? Look, we don’t want to alarm you, but when you get the chance, knock twice.
Lucky President: Calivin Coolidge

Libra: With the moon rising in Uranus, your life will descend into the cruel parody of a country and western song. Keep your pecker up - prison food isn’t as bad you you think, and Big Bubba’s just dying to share a cell with you.
Lucky marsupial: Kangaroo

Scorpio: Congratulations! You’ve won second prize in a beauty contest - a season ticket to see Celine Dion’s Las Vegas show. Sorry about that.
Lucky dictator: Alexander Lukashenka

Sagittarius: You would have thought that giant killer robots from space are the thing of science-fiction comics and the imagination of small boys and George Lucas. In your final, very painful moments, you may like to reflect on the pleasing fact that humanity is not alone in the universe.
Lucky Dr Who: Tom Baker

Capricorn: Devil worshippers, dark rituals invoking evil creatures from the darkest pits of hell and blood-drinking human sacrifice. If I was you, I’d give the Hamilton’s cheese and wine evening a miss.
Lucky Tweenie: Jake

Aquarius: Andy Warhol once commented that “everyone will be famous for fifteen minutes”. In this context, your twenty-seven years as “the elastic foreskin man” does seem a little unfair.
Lucky Devon town with an exclamation mark: Westward Ho!

Pisces: Biblical showers of fish. People just don’t seem to appreciate the pain of being hit by a rock salmon dropped from a height of 20,000 feet, so it may come as a surprise to you for a very, very short time.
Lucky cutlery: Spoon

If it’s your birthday: People will talk about your birthday party for weeks and months to come. Don’t worry, we’ll record the Newsnight specials and pass them on to what reamins of your family. Who’d have thought one clown would have such an appetite for human brains? Live and learn.


"URGENT BUSINESS PROPOSAL"

URGENT ASSISTANCE - FROM USA
IMMEDIATE ATTENTION NEEDED: HIGHLY CONFIDENTIAL
FROM: GEORGE WALKER BUSH 202.456.1414 / 202.456.1111 FAX: 202.456.2461

DEAR SIR / MADAM,

I AM GEORGE WALKER BUSH, SON OF THE FORMER PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED
STATES OF AMERICA GEORGE HERBERT WALKER BUSH, AND CURRENTLY SERVING AS
PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. THIS LETTER MIGHT SURPRISE
YOU BECAUSE WE HAVE NOT MET NEITHER IN PERSON NOR BY CORRESPONDENCE. I
CAME TO KNOW OF YOU IN MY SEARCH FOR A RELIABLE AND REPUTABLE PERSON TO
HANDLE A VERY CONFIDENTIAL BUSINESS TRANSACTION, WHICH INVOLVES THE
TRANSFER OF A HUGE SUM OF MONEY TO AN ACCOUNT REQUIRING MAXIMUM
CONFIDENCE.

I AM WRITING YOU IN ABSOLUTE CONFIDENCE PRIMARILY TO SEEK YOUR
ASSISTANCE IN ACQUIRING OIL FUNDS THAT ARE PRESENTLY TRAPPED IN THE
REPUBLIC OF IRAQ....

The rest of this gem can be found here. As soon as I get my money from Nigeria, I'm gonna get me some herbal Viagra.

"The Smoke"

Bollocks to this, I'm off up to London for a couple of all-expenses-paid days with these lovely people, mixing it with the cream of international broadcasting. I may post stuff here, but then again, it'll probably be a horrible nasal whine about how nasty/smelly/expensive my former home town has got and why I chose to bugger off and live by the sea.

Tell you what. There are a fair few Scaryduck stories in various stages of preparation. Pick a number between one and thirty-three, and the mystery story will be the next one published. Hint: Numbers four and twenty feature loud explosions and the destruction of private property, while number twenty-eight will undoubtedly feature the phrase "vinegar strokes". Conversely, numbers thirty-one and thirty-two both conclude with hideous rectal injuries and are not for the faint-hearted. Choose-o!

The Scaryduck Archive

"Lucky Bag"

1997. Mrs Scary and I sat down and earnestly decided that we had had enough Scaryducklings for one lifetime, and that I should go and have The Snip. I would present myself at the hospital and allow a perfect stranger to cut a hole in my ballbag and do stange things with my plums until they didn’t work anymore. It seemed totally fair at the time, after all Mrs Scary had gone through the pain of child birth twice AND endured a lifetime of marriage to me.

I put my name on the list, and waited, knowing full well that such was the state of the health service, it would be upwards of two years before they got round to me. Six weeks later, I got a cunnigly worded letter asking me to present myself at Battle Hospital in Reading, and don’t forget your nads. Arses.

Despite my morbid fear of blood (my own) and incredible pain, I bravely faced up to my ordeal. I am, after all, the son ofa doctor and a nurse, so what possibly did I have to worry about? An entire lifetime of regular supplies of “The Lancet”, the journal of the medical profession, for starters. Every month it would flop through our letter box, and every month I was introduced to a new kind of skin condition, hideous disease or bizarre injury, all in glorious technicolor. It put me right off following in my father’s footsteps, and I have steadfastly pursued a career path that has taken me as far away from these knife-wielding goons as possible. And now I was going to let one of them loose on my bollocks. Doom.


Actual 100% genuine pic of Scary (taken with an X-Ray camera, obviously)

Bright and early I awoke on that Monday morning. I showered. Then I shaved. And shaved again, a process done with the utmost care so as not to cut any more holes in the scrote than was aboslutely necessary. All this was done in a bathroom resembling Piccadilly Circus, with people from a five mile radius bursting in to use the lav, and just to check out how I was getting on with the nads.

With the kids packed off to relatives, I took the short journey down the road to the Battle Hospital. It was deserted. Not a soul to be seen. Like the Marie Celeste, there were signs of habitation, a half drunk cup of coffee, a coat on a hook, but no-one to be seen. Eventually, after a search of the hospital’s empty corridors, I collared a passing nurse and asked where everybody was. She told us.

It was Monday morning. Princess Diana had forgotten to do up her seatbelt the previous Saturday evening, metamorphosing from “Sex-Crazed Royal Tart flounces round Paris with Egyptian Boyfriend” in the early editions of Sunday’s papers to “We’ll Never Forget You, Princess of all our Hearts” by the following lunchtime. The entire hospital staff was allowed the day off to go and have a good cry over it.

“Even Dr Norris?” I asked.

“Especially Dr Norris”, she replied, “Though I suspect he’ll be remembering Diana with eighteen holes of golf.”

I took to my heels and ran, Mrs Scary struggling to keep up. I got out of the hospital building, and kept running until I reached the car. My gonads were safe. Dr Norris was hacking about with his mashie niblick on the golf course instead of hacking away at my crown jewels. I jumped into the car and sped away, never to return. Except to go back and pick up Mrs Scary.

After all the national grieving, the crying, the media hyperbole and the fucking awful Elton John song, I feel the time has come to finally pay my respects to Her Royal Highness Princess Diana of Wales, who died saving orphans, poor people, kittens an’ stuff: God bless ya, Your Highness, you saved my bollocks! A fitting tribute to a great, great woman. It’s what she would have wanted.

"Crap Celebrity Spot"

Spotted on the train today: Little Mo out of EastEnders. And she really is little. They carried her onto the train in a cardboard box, and made her travel on a shelf in the guard's van, where she clubbed the ticket collector over the head with an iron and set fire to my bike. Yeah, I know, popbitch is over there ---->

"Fan-dabby-double-dozie!"

Jebus, this is perhaps the sickest thing I've seen for a long, long while. Wee Jimmy Krankie - ye've got ladybumps!

The Scaryduck Archive

"Fish"

Bollocks to this, I'm off to go visit some penguins. And otters. And eight-foot bullet-proof killer crabs. And man-eating zombie bumblebees. Fletcher will be coming, and there will be photographs sooner or later if we're not kicked out for worrying the fish.

Still without home PC, the next Scary story will appear on Sunday. Say thank you to Wyke Regis Library for letting me use their machine.

The Scaryduck Archive

"Easter"

My PC is still in several large non-functioning pieces all over Nigel's workshop, so updates will be pretty sparse over the Easter period. This time will be spent in the loving bosom of my family, scraping shit off the carpet now that Scarydog's finally moved in with us. When I return, I shall be posting one of the following stories. Vote for your favourite in the "Speak Your Brains" box below, bearing in mind that at least two of them haven't actually been written yet:

* Ford - Swim for your life woe
* Cow - Farmyard shit woe
* Lucky Bag - Princess Diana saved my bollocks woe
* Firestarter - exactly what it says on the tin. A tin which ended up exploding all over the place ...err... woe

In the meantime --- Happy Easter!



"An Open Letter to Captain Scarlet"

This is the Voice of the Mysterons. We know that you can hear us, Earthmen. And to say that we are really, really quite peeved is a toal understatement. Mrs Mysteron says she had only just shampooed the lounge carpet the other Tuesday, and you came tramping in from the garden with your muddy boots all over the place. If you think we’re coming over for your candlelit soiree on Saturday night without an apology, Mrs Mysteron says you’ve got another thing coming.

Besides, we did ask you and the lovely Mrs Scarlet to paint your front door pink, just for us, and you went and left it that unsightly green colour. Mrs Mysteron had one of her turns when she saw that, because it just doesn't go with the hall curtains and it brings down the tone of the entire neighbourhood. And frankly, if you hadn’t have loaned us that fondue set when Captain and Mrs Black come over at Whitsun weekend, we really don’t know how we could show our faces around Surbiton.

Toby and Perdita say hello, by the way. Young Toby’s over that rather unpleasant Morocco business, and we are no longer persona non grata at the Rotary Club now that Perdita’s given up her dancing career. See you at the Gymkhana on Sunday then? Send our regards to Audrey!

PS The missiles are in the air. You have sixteen hours to save the Earth.

The Scaryduck Archive

"Rocket"

It was a science project about soil. Easy, just dig some out of your garden, bring it in, and pour chemicals over it, and if you’re lucky you might get some pretty brown bubbles. But that wasn’t good enough for Greebo, Hackett and Metal. They thought they could earn extra marks by comparing our top quality soil in Reading with that in Bristol, where Metal’s gran lived. Mr Wilkinson thought it was a good idea too, and looked forward to her posting a small envelope of the stuff to the school, something that would spark a full-scale security alert these days. But Greebo and co were, let’s put it tactfully, mental. Instead of just asking her for it, they decided to build a rocket that would fly eighty miles to Bristol, where Metal’s gran would fill it up with soil, and fire it back with the kind of accuracy that V-2 rocket engineers back in the War would have envied.


School was never quite the same after they shut down Science Club

After a huge class-room bust-up in which Metal screamed and shouted at his “rank amateur” co-conspirators, there was an official divorce and Metal went off to work on his own top secret project. It was perhaps something to do with Greebo and Hackett’s initial design. It was a used Coke can with a cardboard nose-cone filled with gas from the science lab. With the top-level technology afforded to these geniuses, the gas was held in the can by a blob of plasticine. NASA had nothing on this lot. It flew thirty feet on its maiden flight - as far as Hackett could throw it. And he threw like a girl.

While the rest of the class worked on their presentations with huge quanitites of local muck, the mad duo were forced to explain, in front of the entire class, what, exactly, was the point of all this messing about with Coke cans, and why they had produced exactly nothing. After open ridicule of the cardboard nose cone or “combustion chamber” as they insisted on calling it, Greebo committed the kind of social faux pas that you just cannot get away with at school. He ran away crying.

Metal pressed on. In his bedroom-cum-workshop-cum-pirate radio station, he built a two-staged whopper out of calor gas cartridges and aluminium tubing, and it looked seriously scary. His guidance system, he boasted, would be one of the local church bells which we all knew had been stuck in the “up” position for several decades. We didn’t doubt his technical prowess, we had spent many an evening in the past listening to Pirate Radio Metal, until Her Majesty’s Government kindly put us out of our misery by shutting him down.

By now, the entire project was strictly unofficial. It had been months since they had closed down Science Club after That Nitro-Glycerine Thing, and no-one had dared try something so wonderfully dangerous since then. Those of us in the know were given a time, date and location and met Metal at his “launch silo”, an old tunnel up in the woods near to school. We were amazed. He had rigged up a launch pad, and set up a control centre about fifty yards away, at the end of a very long wire in a ditch.

Metal gave a short speech on how he was the future of the British Space Industry, and how we were a “bunch of ponces” for not believing he could take the project so far. Solemnly we counted down, and he connected the wire to the terminals of the lorry battery that powered the whole thing.

Nothing.

“Fuck!” said Metal, as we all laughed at him.

He got up and followed the wires across the clearing to the launch pad. He was halfway to his target when the thing went off.

It was most impressive, the rocket took off with a WHOOOOOSH and flew a good fifty feet in the air. We applauded and whooped. All well and good but Metal hadn’t really worked out how to get the second stage going, and it was only a few seconds later that gravity took control of the whole affair, and it started tumbling back down to Earth. Towards us. Bristol’s loss was our ... err ... abject terror.

There were cries of “Oh shit!” and a general cacking of pants as we lurched out of the ditch in all directions. And good thing we did, too.

Brief chemistry lesson: There comes a time when setting fire to a gas in an enclosed space, that quantities of fuel and oxygen reach the correct proportions. It’s called the flashpoint. When this happens, there is, to use the correct terminology, a fucking great explosion.

Metal’s throbbing monster hit the deck roughly where the six of us had been cowering just moments before. It lay there, glowering, a blue flame coming out of the nozzle getting smaller and smaller. Until....

BANG!

The gas canister went off. It wasn’t a particularly big explosion, but it had the effect of rupturing the second stage canister, which went off about three quarters of a second later. My entire world went a beautiful shade of orangey-blue-yellow with added shrapnel.

Words cannot describe the noise it made, but I’ll give it a damn good try.

Take a deep breath and go THWOOOOOOOOOSSSSSSSHHHHHH-BLAAAAAAANG-NG-NG-NG-eeeeeeeeeee!!!!”, the last bit being the ringing noise that haunts you for the next two weeks.

Metal shrugged.

“Same time next week, lads?”

No thanks, mate, I think I’ll just slink home and drain the blood out of my ears, thank you very much.

Metal surrendered. His granny sent him a small tin of soil, which got stuck in the post and arrived two weeks too late to use on the project. It didn’t make any difference, he sat at home one evening and made up a comparative analysis off the top of his head and got a grade A. And while the rest of the class was moving on to the important subject of reproduction with the volputuous Miss Shagwell, Greebo and Hackett were still up the school field throwing coke cans at each other. As far as I know, they’re still there.

The Scaryduck Archive

"A Scarier Kind of Duck"

Who said TV's been dumbed down? There I was, nicely settled in front of the box last night, when I happened across a gem of a programme called "Monsters We Met on BBC2. It's a documentary type thing speculating how ancient man coped with - and generally killed off - whopping great spiky toothed animals back in the dawn of time. Last night it showed the first Aboriginal settlers to Australia some 70,000 years ago. I've got an enormous respect for these people, they travelled in large numbers across at least 300 miles of sea to a place that has one million and one ways of killing you in a time where your average European was having trouble rubbing two sticks together, let alone thinking of new ways to mess up the world.

It was when the first settlers, in a vividly computer-generated sequence encountered the Bullockornis or Genyornis that I sat up in my chair. For this two tonne giant is more commonly known as The Demon Duck of Doom. So what happened to this gentle giant, which undoubtedly tastes pretty good, if a little stringy, in a delicate orange sauce? The programme was rather less than forthcoming about the fate of this duck's ancestors, but I am pretty sure of the one course of action they took. They fucked it and ate it.

I had a direct complaint today about the content of this site. Tom says he wants filth, "vinegar strokes" and the blowing up of dangerous objects and subsequent reckless endangerment of life. Tom, there will be filth tomorrow. Oh yes.

While you're waiting, Hats for Clowns will eat your brains.

Woo! Yay! Bigfoot and the Groincrushers are now on Google. Soon world domination will be mine.

The Scaryduck Archive

"The Monday Link-o-matic"

Weebl and Bob get hairy pie and a song you'll be singing in your head for days.

Mittens the cute kitten visits Atlantis.

Humprey and Duncan go on holiday.

Pengor's being nice. He's after something.

George Bush adds Wales to the Axis of Evil.

"Old spunkers Landlady movie" my favourite google referral ever. Connoisseurs of the art will note that I am result one of one.

And bollocks to this, buy stuff and make me rich!

"Spunky"

Arsenal 1-0 Sheffield United, perhaps the spawniest win of all time. The winning goals came as the result of an unfortunate kick the the bollocks and a superb tackle by the referee, who turned out to be our best player on the day.

The whole affair was made memorable by what many people are calling The Save of the Century by the mighty Arsenal's David Seaman. How, a perplexed public is asking, did a thirty-nine year old crock manage to swim through the air like the legendary Billy the Fish and prevent what was a certain goal? Never fear, for we have the answer. Compare and contrast our hero's use of "Spunky Time". The difference being, of course, being that Keanu wouldn't have got a hand to the ball.

The Scaryduck Archive

“Knockers”

This story has been prodded out of me by the Cyberfiction Review, and has been brought to you by the letter “G” and the number “69”.


"Kyak, kyak! Fnarr, fnarr!"
The genuine Durham knockers

“Did you see it? Did you see it?”

If these were the first words you heard on arriving at school in the morning, then you can be sure that something groundbreaking, outrageous or simply not-to-be-missed had appeared on television the previous night. The lucky few who had witnessed this televisual feast could give a blow-by-blow account, while those who had far better things to do could only listen, and lie through their teeth, saying that yes, I had seen it too. And on this particular Tuesday or Friday (I can’t remember which) the playground before morning registration was buzzing with these words.

“Did you see it?”

Yes, I saw it.

I’ve already touched on the genius of Blue Peter in the last month with a doggy tale of mirth and woe. This tale happened about three years later, with the programme already sinking from its televisual peak of Noakes, Purves and Singleton, rapidly gaining speed into a nosedive that would give us Mark Bastard Curry and Caron “Me Mum’s Gloria Hunniford you know” Keating. Everyone still watched it (Hey! We live in the Home Counties - watching BP is compulsory down here), but it was perfectly clear that the programme was already living on past glories. The days of John Noakes’s bruised arse were long gone.

Still, they educated as they entertained. Transient presenter Chris Wenner burned up five mnutes of studio time demonstrating how the door knocker at Durham Cathedral was being replaced by an identical replica, while the old one was being resotred. Oh yes, Noakes’s bruised arse was long, long gone. Wenner finished his piece and handed over to Simon Groom. The was a moment of embarrassed silence as Groom struggled to come to terms with the total disinterest the previous item had produced. Cathedral door knockers. A real one, and a fake one in the BP studio because even Magpie wouldn’t touch them with a shitty stick. After a momen’t hesitation, Groom took a breath. To use a Blue Peter cliche: suddenly, disaster struck.

“What a wonderful pair of knockers.”

The length of the country, cups of tea were spat over TV screens, while the BBC switchboard lit up like a Christmas tree. Wonderful.

Twenty-three years later, farmer’s son Simon Groom is now a presenter on Radio Sheffield where he lists his most embarrassing moment as “announcing on Blue Peter: ‘One of Goldie's puppies is going to become a blind dog for the guides...’”. Bit of a memory slip there Simes, we prefer to remember you as the bloke with the knockers.

The Scaryduck Archive

“Fire”

God, I’m a hero. A real, genuine, bonafide, girls-falling-at-my-feet hero. Somebody ought to give me a medal.

Last night, for the second time in my career, I prevented our workplace from burning down, saving myself and all my colleagues from a hideous firey death. The first time I bravely snuffed out somebody’s cake in a microwave oven that had spontaneously combusted to hilarious effect. On this occasion it was a TV monitor that decided to kill itself rather than be used by me. It did a passable impression of a bowl of Rice Krispies (“Snap, Crackle, Pop!”) before smoke and flames started to belch out of the back.

Neal and I both took one look at it, nodded in agreement, and did what any sane individual would do when faced with a flaming piece of live electrical apparatus. We bravely fought the flames, raised the alarm, and saved several small children and cute fluffy animals from certain doom, before being hailed as heroes by swooning female colleagues.

Actually, we ran away like a big pair of jessies.

The fire went out on its own accord and we had to stand out in the cold for nearly two hours as no-one knew how to turn the fire alarm off.

This morning, we were feted as heroes by our dayshift colleagues. They cheered, waved and slapped us both on our backs with cries of “You bastards! Why didn’t you let the whole place burn down?” and “Next time douse it with petrol.”

There’s no pleasing some people. Now, if you’ll excuse me, there’s old ladies needing to cross the road. Whether they want to or not.

The Scaryduck Archive

"Minder"

Quite definitely not a “Let’s All Laugh At Funny Regional Accents” Special. At all.

One of the best parts of travelling to away matches with the Arsenal was the many and interesting people you’d meet. Like the police in Norwich that made thousands of Arsenal fans stand on a freezing afternoon with bare feet “in case somebody’s carrying a knife in their shoes”, fellow Londoners waiting to beat you up at Watford Gap services because they supported West Ham, or Millwall or even, bless them, QPR. Or just the thousands of Scouse kids who’d appear out of the woodwork in Liverpool wanting money to “look after your car, Mister”.

Never mind the fact that you’d just paid three quid to park in the official away supporters’ car park in Stanley Park, you had to pay these kids to mind your car because, well, if you didn’t, all kinds of unfortunate accident may befall your transport home while your team was dishing out the annual ritual thrashing to Everton, or watching in open-mouthed disbelief as another referee handed out a dodgy penalty to the home team in front of the Liverpool Kop.


The management would like to point out that not all citizens of the fair city of Liverpool look like this. At least half of them wear Everton shirts, and some demented souls have no interest in football whatsoever.

You were paying out for insurance. The kind of insurance sold to nervous looking shopkeepers by burly men in sharp suits saying things like “Blimey guv, a lot of inflammable stuff in here, could go up at any minute if you’re not protected by Kray Brothers Insurance Services. Know what I mean?” You paid, you watched the match, your car remained in one piece, because I don’t know about you, but I like mine to have matching hub caps, working windscreen wipers and all the petrol left in the tank. But who am I to reinforce this un-PC regional stereotyping? Not all Scousers are thieving, shellsuit-wearing scallies. Just all the ones we met, that’s all. When I ran into George Harrison , at no stage did I see a shell-suit or a car jacked up on four bricks. Proof positive.

To be completely fair about the kids we met in Liverpool, they possessed a great sense of humour and a sense of opportunism that was second to none. In London, the rather hackneyed term is “duckin’ and divin’”. They had the brains to go with the operation. If only kids elsewhere displayed that kind of enterprising spirit.

Take your typical Birmingham street urchin. They may look the same as your working class ne’er-do-well from the banks of the River Mersey, but they lack that certain streetwise nous that the young Scouser is famous for. While the Brummie is still trying to get his brain in gear, the Scally has already lifted your fags and is passing them round his mates before selling the half-empty packet back to you at a substantial mark-up. That’s the free market economy in action, folks, and it can only be applauded in this cut-throat world of rampant capitalism.

It was on a trip to England’s second city for a match at Villa Park that I noticed this crucial cultural difference. It had already been an eventful trip up the M1 to Birmingham, involving the usual “Oh my God, we’re all going to die” stop at Watford Gap followed by vital bits falling off my car, that saw us pulling up at the kerb of a side-street near the ground.

Two shell-suited idiots sidled up to us, hoping for some easy money. Or, seeing as we were in deepest Brum, “munnoi”.

“Hey mister, look after your car?”

“Yeah, OK, but I haven’t got any change right now.”

“That’s all roight, you can pay uz after the game.”

“Deal.”

We went and watched the match, which incidentally was won by a rampant Arsenal team, returning at five o’clock to find the two shellsuited idiots dutifully watching over our cars, a task our Scouse minders would have been doing from the comfort of their home several miles away.

“Awight there, mister. We looked after your car, where’s me munnoi?”

My reply was forthright and to the point.

“Piss off.”

We drove back to London, leaving two youths trying to make sense of what had happened. Fifteen years later, one of that pair is now the Governor of the Bank of England, the other is a car park attendant at Villa Park.

So, what did we learn today? Number one: I’m tighter than a gnat’s chuff when it comes to matters of cash. Two: always get the money up front. Three: Capitalism’s a bitch.

Here endeth the lesson.

The Scaryduck Archive

"Cry 'Havoc', and let slip the dogs of war"

The three-headed hell-hound was purchased today from a very nice lady in Somerset, and we'll take delivery of the two-month old bundle of fluff on Tuesday. Unfortunately, he seems to be missing at least two of his heads, and is rather too cute and waggy to have come from the bowels of Hades. I suppose the extra heads and the brain-eating will come with time.

In the meantime, Scarydog needs a proper name. Mrs Scary is leaning towards "Harry", which I like as in "Genial" Harry Grout. Your suggestions, however, will be gratefully received, with extra points for references to classic UK television sitcoms. Naturally, at the end of this process, I shall teach you an important lesson about democracy.

Scarycat knows nothing. Boy, she's got a surpise coming.

The Scaryduck Archive

"Woof"

Apparently, we are getting a dog at Scaryduck Towers. I was all for this fine idea right up to the moment I found out that you can't get three-headed hell hounds in the shops any more. Not even in Petsmart. Arses.

The Scaryduck Archive

“Rocky”

Sometimes life will pull a dirty trick on you, deal you a card off the bottom of the pack. That happened to David Rocastle, one of the greatest football players I ever saw. He was just breaking into the first team when I started watching Arsenal back in 1986, and along with Michael Thomas, Paul Merson and Tony Adams became an integral part of the team that won league titles in 1989 and 1991.


Rocky in full flight

The kid was something special. I remember travelling up to Coventry City, not the most inviting of venues at the best of times, but on a freezing cold Sunday in December to watch a dire 0-0 draw it was an ordeal. An ordeal made worthwhile by Rocky skinning the entire Coventry defence, including poking the ball between the last defender’s leg before whipping in a cross that was all-too-predictably walloped into the stands by Martin Hayes.

And that’s why I went. Rocky might turn it on, and when he did, it was magic. I’ll never forget to this day standing on a packed, heaving terrace at White Hart Lane in the dying minutes of a Cup replay, when Rocastle surged through a crowded penalty area, ball glued to his boot to whack home the winner from six yards out. We went mental. Absolutely ape-shit mental, hugging complete strangers, going through the entire repertoire of songs. Such was the crush, my feet didn’t actually touch the ground for at least five minutes. Rocastle did that, and more.

That Cup semi-final marked something else. At half-time of the second match of this three-game epic, and with Spurs cruising at 2-0, the PA announcer at White Hart Lane read out how Spurs fans could get their tickets for the final. The Arsenal fans heard it, and so did the players in the away dressing room. Something clicked. After a decade of losing, they stormed back to 2-2, won the replay, the Cup Final and four titles in the next fifteen years. It was the start of what Ray Parlour called the team’s “unbelievable belief”, the knowledge that, even if the chips are down, they are going to give everything they’ve got and more.

And then it was over. Cruelly overlooked by the England team, told by the boss that he “no longer figured in his plans”, he was sold to Leeds in 1992. Leeds. Bloody Leeds. When somebody broke the news to me in an Italian hotel bar, I assumed they were joking. Some joke. Two million quid for our best player, and what did we get in return? We got John Jensen and David Hillier, two players, and I’ll be perfectly honest, not fit even to lick the mud off Rocky’s boots.

He was never the same player. From Leeds he went to Chelsea, Manchester City, Norwich, Hull and then off to Malaysia, but recurring injuries finally killed off the career which had never recovered from being sold by the club he loved.

He was diagnosed with Non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma, a virulent form of cancer, in 2000, and despite a confident prognosis, he died in March the following year, aged just thirty-three. He left a wife and three children.

The story would have ended here, yet the fans of Arsenal would not let the memory of a favourite son slip away. “Oh Rocky Rocky! Rocky Rocky Rocky Rocky Rocastle!” is still chanted home and away, and his son was the club mascot in the 2001 FA Cup Final. There is a petition for a testimonial match in his memory, and around 250 fans have united in a more practical sense.

The David Rocastle Remembered group donates spare CPU time on their PCs to carry out calculations for cancer research, and has, so far donated 61 years of computer time to the cause. It’s free to join, and all you need to do is to download a small programme that runs in the background of your computer that reports back to grid.org every now and then. It’s that simple, and it’s making a difference right now. To read more on this project, take a gander at this article on Arsenal World.

NHL killed Rocky, and his death shocked the thousands that had literally grown up with his talent. I'm proud to support a team that still plays with the flair and excitement that exploded onto the Highbury pitch back in the late 1980's, and I'll forever treasure the fact that I was there when it all started. Recently, a very dear friend of mine recently survived Non-Hodgkin's and is recovering towards a normal life, and I’m eternally thankful for that. It was her bravery and determination that got me thinking about Rocky again, determined to do something to help those still alive, while remembering those past. With a bit of that famous “unbelievable belief”, perhaps this thing can be beaten. Rocky, rest in peace fella, I’ll always remember you.

Cue Brian Moore: “It’s Rocastle! Arsenal are through to Wembley!”

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“Bigfoot and the Groincrushers: Quest for Glory”

I was in a band once. I had everything you need to be a major popular music star - a very expensive Korg Poly 61 synth, and 100 Watts of H+H bass bin (known to my mates as The Earthquake) and some fantastic wraparound shades that made me look a complete dick. I also had that priceless commodity - absolutely no musical talent whatsoever. I should know, I practiced long and hard, and just couldn’t be trusted to hit the notes in the right order or even at the right time. By using preset 54 on the synth, it would make a noise like a helicopter and nobody could tell the difference. We played two gigs, but I strongly suspect I was only allowed in on sufferance as I owned the PA.

Like all rubbish bands, we sounded like a tenth-rate Joy Division, and our one recorded song “World Without Snakes” recorded in Ian’s dining room, with the drummer in the lounge such was the lo-fi recording equipment, sounded so depressing that the Samaritans rung us up and begged us to stop.

We had a name. No sniggering at the back. Afansor. It wasn’t my choice, the rest of the band spent far too much time playing Dungeons and Dragons for their own good, and the name was chosen on the roll of 3d6 with double damage, whatever that is. I pushed and pushed for Bigfoot and the Groincrushers, but was cruelly rebuffed and went off in a strop with the all-too-true words “You’re useless!” ringing in my ears. I was a solo artist, and a piss artist at that.

Stung as I was by this rejection of my unique talents, it has become my life’s mission to plug the name Bigfoot and the Groincrushers wherever possible. It has been an uphill task, as they don’t even return a result on Google. Together we can change that state of affairs. When people ask you about your favourite band, replay, “Why! That fine English beat ensemble Bigfoot and the Groincrushers. Have you heard their debut long player ‘When Come Back Bring Pie’ by any chance?”

Bigfoot and the Groincrushers cite many influences. The Beatles, punk, ska, oi!, Celine Dion, industrial, prog rock, folk, techno, Andrew Lloyd Webber, Sigue Sigue Sputnik, Kylie Minogue, Alternative Car Park and the makers of Dr Marten’s boots. Add your own, they ain’t fussy. The drummer’s a big fan of Liza Minelli.

They may be a figment of my warped imagination, but one thing is one hundred per cent certain: they’re still better than Robbie Bastard Williams.

"Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!"

Hey ! Hey! Hey! It’s a Speak & Spell emulator for people who can remember whencomputers came with LED screens. Loads of sweary goodness to be had as long as you can keep it below eight letters. So that’s “Flange baskets” out for a start. Click on the picture for lovely super-sized cussin’. Remember: Swearing - it’s not big and it’s not clever. Especially not on a Sunday. I'm going to hell anyway, so I'm excused.

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"Vote!"

"The Bloke Behind Me"

I like football. That would be soccer for you geographically challenged Americans. I spent much of my adolescence standing on terraces at the Arsenal and many other grounds up and down the country, moving with the crowd, shouting, screaming, swearing and generally having the time of my life. Even when we lost, and even when we were chased through run-down urban suburbs by the rather more enthusiastic opposition supporters.

The one great thing about terrace life was the wit, the camaraderie and the general mucking about. One well timed joke could have crowds of people rocking with laughter, one comment from the back of the terrace could sum up the feelings of five thousand people. Undeniably, there were characters (like the one guy who would bellow “Come on you rip-roaring reds!” at the top of his voice in any quiet moment. He’s still there and known as “Riproar” even to his mates), but why the blummin’ hell did they always have to stand behind me?

I always, always, always managed to attract the drunks, straight out of the pub, who pontificated very loudly what exactly was wrong with a) the team, b) the manager c) football, d) the world in general and e) me. All this at the top of their voices. And let’s not go for racial stereotypes, but here we were in the middle of London, but why, in the name of all that is holy, was The Bloke Behind Me always Scottish?

“Och, Charlie Nicholas, you’re a jessie!”

“Och, this is useless, my gramma could have scored that!”

“Ref! REF! You’re a useless old woman!”

“The problem with the neo-classical model of the market system is the lack of room for the determined entrepreneur in the alcoholic beverage sector.”

“Hey! HEY! Lassie! Get yez tits oot!”

One of these was not actually heard at a football match. Well, not before you needed a mortgage to get a season ticket.


The "Unique" Charlie Nicholas: Note award-winning mullet

Charlie Nicholas was the invariable target of The Bloke Behind Me. Charlie was an enigma. He arrived at the Arsenal with a fanfare from Glasgow Celtic, boasting that he would set English football on fire. After years of grey, uninspring football, the club decided they needed a bit of glamour, so they splashed out on the first primadonna they could find. He was suave, he looked good, he was a model, he had great 1980s hair and he couldn’t find his own arse with both hands tied behind his back. At Celtic he could score with his eyes shut, but that was against defences with the hand/eye coordination of Stephen Hawking. At Arsenal, well, we might as well have signed Joanna Lumley.

He became a bit of a joke. He scored goals, but these were few and far between and invariably penalties or some ricochet going in off his backside. Poor old Chas would come good in the end, but he had a torrid time of it, not least from his own fans. The unforgiving football press started a clock showing how long it had been since the last Chas goal. Rumour swept around the ground that he would never header the ball because he might ruin the famous Charlie Nick mullet. And TBBM gave him hell. All the time. At 110 decibels, right in my ear.

“Nicholas! You’re a WAAAAAAANKERRRRRR!”

We loved Charlie. He was beautiful, he had class, and when he could be bothered he was the best footballer in the world. I was there when it happened. It was against Leicester City, and it was downhill from there.

Switch the scene. I won some theatre tickets, and used them on my first date with the lovely young lady who would eventually become Mrs Scary. It was the Savoy Theatre in London with the late, great Ernie Wise starring in The Mystery of Edwin Drood, a passable comedy-drama-mystery-audience-participation type thing set in Victorian England.

It was the usual London theatre crowd, and chock full of American tourists who had arrived by the coachload, whoeven remembered to laugh in the right places. During the second act, there was a heart-rending scene where the heroine of the piece found herself cast out from society, trapped in a seedy opium den and questioning her very existence. The stage was black, apart from one spotlight, which picked out this wretched figure on the stage. She fell to her knees, clutched her hands to her chest and exclaimed:

“Who do you think I am?”

The theatre went quiet as the audience pondered this important question. Then a drunk Scottish voice piped up from the back of the Circle.

“Och, you’re Charlie Nicholas you great jessie!”

It brought the house down. The bugger had obviously followed me there.

Times changed. They took our terraces away and made us sit. Ticket prices went through the roof and football became a day out for well-off trendie. But I went back for a game against Liverpool, but it wasn’t the same. The atmosphere had more or less died out with the singers and noise-makers forced to sit apart at the whim of the computer in the box office. But as the game started, there was an all too familiar voice.

“Och, John Jensen, ye great fat poof!”

“Fowler! Fowler! Ye big-nosed tosser!”

He was there. He will always be there. When he dies under the wheels of a number nine bus, his shade will still be there, screaming drunken abuse in my ear. Most people have a guardian angel. I have Jimmy.

Post Script: I have found, through a series of deductions, that at some stage in my life, I may have sat in the Highbury Clock End no more than a few yards from public enemy number two Osama bin Laden.

“David Hillier! Get off the pitch you infidel scum!”

Proof positive.

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"Pie"

Scaryduck Jr is seven years old, but is already displaying signs that I may have corrupted him. On April 1st, he went into school and convinced his entire class that they were "going on a trip to the pie factory", a gag that I promise on my dog’s life I had absolutely nothing to do with. Honestly. He further embellished the story with the promise that everyone would be getting "a free pie to take home" in whatever flavour they liked, while one of the classes in year three would be taking in the delights of the local fishmongers with similar offers of free fish.

His teacher had a word with us after school.

"Vote"

New Scaryduckness tomorrow. Please register your vote for "Rocket", "The Bloke Behind Me" and the hot-off-the-presses "Swept Away" in the Speak Your Brains section.

"Pimp"

Neer too ashamed to plug my own output, so BUY MY STUFF! or Pengor will demonstrate why he's a penguin with issues.

"Dolphin Sex Update"

Haven't had a dolphin sex update for ages, this report from my local rag the Dorset Echo may explain why:

Dolphin Randy is feared dead Randy the dolphin - the playful adult bottlenose who became a celebrity - is feared dead today. Rumours abound that one of Dorset's most famous natural attractions, who pursued a love affair with people and boat propellers, has gone to the great ocean in the sky. His death has not yet been confirmed but wildlife experts fear the worst after hearing Randy may have been involved in a boat accident. Randy, so-called because of his attraction to women wearing rubber wetsuits, shot to stardom when he first arrived in Weymouth last Easter, nearly one year ago. Randy's last reported movements were in the Netherlands just before Christmas when he was spotted in Dinterloord harbour and a rescue boat was mobilised to take him back out to sea. A WSPA spokesman said: "We've heard rumours that Randy was killed after being involved in some kind of boat accident.

Arses. The General Synopsis, on the other hand, is good. (2MB download, but worth every second of Braces Tower's genius).

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"April's Horrorscopes"

Lordy! An unforeseen planetary alignment and a bizarre accident with a pack of inflatable tarot cards meant I forgot to post up this month's horrscopes (or even remember to post any at all for March). You didn't miss much, only the usual diet of death, doom destruction, horror and flower arranging.

Aries: It’s incredible how those smart bombs can travel hundred of miles and hit their target with unerring accuracy. Most of the time. Still, you’ve got to laugh.
Lucky WWII aircraft: B-29

Taurus: It’s not true that masturbation makes you blind. Not in normal cases, anyway. And let’s face it, as a Taurus, your hands are hairier than most. Laser corrective surgery might help.
Lucky hat: Fez

Gemini: Anal probes aren’t all bad. Trust me.
Lucky 24 hour Arabic news channel: Al-Jazeera

Cancer: You are a beautiful, popular, successful head-in-the-clouds kind of person who can expect only love, wealth and happiness this month. Only joking. It’s Ebola again.
Lucky washed-up pop star: Rick Astley

Leo: You will spend your waking hours haunted by the question “Are you a Benny tied to a tree?” and fear that you may have given the incorrect answer.
Lucky arse: Kylie Minogue

Virgo: Your chosen career path will only lead to ridicule and humiliation. It’s not as if Celine Dion even needs a stalker.
Lucky Avenger: John Steed

Libra: You’d better watch your back this month, what with Mr Bush deciding that Librans comprise an important part of the “Axis of Evil”. Can’t say I blame him either.
Lucky Pope: Pius XII

Scorpio: Destiny sees an encounter with a tall, dark stranger, just minutes before you appear on the front page of the National Enquirer as the pervert who’s been carrying on with Saddam Hussein.
Lucky cop show: Miami Vice

Sagittarius: Most stand-up comedians work long and hard at their acts to get a reaction from their audience. On the other hand, all you’ve got to do to raise a laugh this month is to walk down the street.
Lucky French newspaper: Le Monde

Capricorn: Destiny grants your wish for a life of solitude on a tropical island in the Caribbean. Camp X-Ray, here we come!
Lucky Peanuts charcter: Linus

Aquarius: You will find that your life has descended into a bizarre parody of a Danish porno movie. And the TV repairman’s due today. Remember - if it hurts, you’re doing it wrong.
Lucky expletive: Tittybiscuits!

Pisces: A planetary alignment in Uranus on the 5th brings you inner peace, hope and love. Enjoy it while you can, as the rest of the month brings a planetary alignment in your anus.
Lucky German Technopop Pioneers: Kraftwerk

If it’s your birthday: The year ahead brings joy, happiness and an interesting rash on your shoulder which you will foolishly ignore. I hope you don’t mind me asking, but can I have your record collection?

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