"July's Horrorscopes"

Before we get any complaints about this month's all-seeing look into your (admittedly grim) futures being a bunch of made-up cack; I'd like to point out that this month's charts were based on actual horoscopes swiped from a genuine "celebrity" astrologer somewhere on the internet, who'd quite like you to sign up for his premium service. Just think about that as your wanking arm falls off, Virgos.

Aries: Friends will be amazed at the power that’s coursing through your body this month. That’ll teach you to plug your clockwork cucumber into the mains socket.
Lucky Dr Who villain: Davros

Taurus: Fire rages in your heart, dear Tauran, as you battle to express your love for somebody dear to you. Don’t let it get out of control, as spontaneous human combustion is rather more common than you’d think.
Lucky Harry Enfield Character: Stavros

Gemini: Go for gold, dear Gemini, today marks the first day of the rest of your life. It’s also the last day of the rest of your life, so enjoy it while you can. Who’d have thought Cindy Crawford would turn out to be such a homocidal maniac?
Lucky Greek Island: Lesbos

Cancer: Ignore all those bad things people around you are saying. It’s only a minor skin condition and it won’t be long before you’re the life and soul of the party. Only joking. It’s Ebola again.
Lucky mythological character: King Minos

Leo: A great month for you to get up on stage and dance, dance, dance! And we thought they’d put an end to public hangings.
Lucky fashion model: Kate Moss

Virgo: It’s a great time to add that extra spark to your life. Playting golf in a thunderstorm, however, is considered a bit of a no-no. On the bright side, your next-of-kin will be spared the expense of a cremation.
Lucky thing to do in the bathroom: Floss

Libra: Your emotions are coming to a climax this month, dear Libran. Be careful who you lash out at, we understand that Mike Tyson’s just made bail, and he’s ANGRY.
Lucky boy band: Bros

Scorpio: July is the month where you feel the urge to go to extremes. Don’t worry, we’ve got a couple of barn doors ready for when that bungee rope snaps.
Lucky medal: Victoria Cross

Sagittarius: Now’s the time to be inventive and not to worry about the consequences of your actions. Damn good thing too - the police may call it murder, but hey, you’re just thining out the gene pool.
Lucky aftershave: Hugo Boss

Capricorn: With the moon in Uranus, you’ll find emotional situations difficult to deal with. Just do as the police say and no-one will get hurt.
Lucky Greek football team: Olimpiakos

Aquarius: The planets come into alignment this month, allowing your talents, style and unique voice to be heard on the world stage, just as Mark Chapman makes parole.
Lucky Sport: Lacrosse

Pisces: You wake up to find that it’s all been a beautiful, beautful dream where your riches, love life and wit are second to none, and the world falls at your feet. Now, get a crack on, or you’ll miss your appointment at the dole office.
Lucky Greek Island: Lesbos

If it’s your birthday: Congratulations! The sun is back in Cancer, exactly where it belongs to bring you a fruitful and happy life. Get out and enjoy the sights, sounds and smells of the world about you, as if everyday could be your last. Let’s just say your chart’s rather on the *short* side. Can we have your presents?

"Turkey"

The Scaryduck Alan Smithee Memorial Bad Movie Poll is now closed. Results and grand finale Tuesday.

"Quack Quack, baby!"

From Manic: Duck Hunting Girls. Hot young ladies looking for a duck to fill that empty space in their lives. With guns. Argh!

The Scaryduck Archive

"Chips"

Today I shall be mostly attending the Dorset Festival of the Fish.

Undoubtedly, I shall be regaling you with fine fish-and-penguin related japery later.

That is all.

"Later"

And, oh, what fun we had. Fish, fish, and everywhere fish. There was many stands, stall and demonstrations all of a fishy nature, celebrating what can only be described as the art of fish. Fish fashion once again emphasises the scales and the dorsal fin, and pierced gills are no longer de rigeur for the hip fish on the street. We were rather disappointed that the whole tone was the event was cheapened by the organisers allowing mullet to be present. And the whole place smelled like a penguin's bathroom.

Unfortunately, I am unable to bring you reports of penguins holding the whole festival at gunpoint until every last fin and scale was in their possession. Instead, we witnessed the Twunt family from Dudley, each and every one of them dressed head-to-toe in matching combat gear. Dad, mum, three kids, granny, aunty Vera and Rambo the dog, all looking like they'd just crawled out of a hedge. Either this was some kind of mung fashion statement, or they know something that we don't. Is it time to start panic buying for duct tape again?

And cockles. Don't they look like ladies' rude bits?

The Scaryduck Archive

“Neither big nor clever”

Mrs Scary has had words with me about my swearing. Even “titty biscuits” is apparantly too near the knuckle to be said in front of the ducklings, even if Scaryduck Jr is now using it on a regular basis. However, the word “poop” has replaced “poo” in our family’s everyday usage. I’ve always prided myself on my extensive vocabulary of sweariness, and have been more than a passing scholar of the infamous Viz Profanisaurus, the publication of choice for the committed cuss-merchant.

I’ve heard it said that if you need to resort to profanity, you are showing those around you that you have a limited vocabulary. My response to this is “What a load of hairy-arsed bollocks”. Did the Bard of Stratford, William Shakespeare himself not write “To be or not to be, that’s one goat-fucker of a question”? Did the celebrated wit Oscar Wilde not say “I have nothing to declare excpet my bastard flange-baiting genius?” I rest my case.

Yet, somehow, I feel strangely unsatisfied. Despite the huge positive difference the words “bollocks”, “wanker” and “flange basket” have made to my life, it has become my eternal quest for ever more interesting, amusing and offensive swear words. You can say “fuck” until the cows come home (and believe me, I do), but there’s nothing more satisfying than shocking a maiden aunt with judicious use of “arse cakes” or “goat’s quim!”.

I understand that certain people pay good money for this kind of filth, usually at premium phone rates, so reader, dear reader, open the Speak Your Brains section and Talk Dirty To Me. You know you want to.

"Heh"

Best. Sports. Headline. Ever.

The Friggin' Scaryduck Archive

"Public Service Announcement"

Today has been declared “World Kick Mick Jagger in the Testicles Day”. If you see the fat-lipped Rolling Stones front-man at any time today, you are entitled under the terms of the United Nations charter to kick the rubber-faced buffoon in the bollocks. Steel toe-capped boots and someone to hold his arms will be made available on request. (Left) A scene from last year’s successful WKMJitTD

"Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!"

Is there no end to this madness? Going through my referrer logs the other day, I accidentally stumbled across this here page (sorry 'bout them pop-ups, tripod, y'see), something I knocked together ages ago and promptly forgot about. I could watch the little bugger all day, and as a matter of fact, I think I will.

"Mammon Revisited"

Make me rich, you bastards! Spend $30 or more at the top-quality Scaryduck Shop, enter the coupon code FREEDOM at the checkout and get a whoop-de-doo $4 discount; which, frankly, is better than a poke in the eye with a sharpened stick. Feed my children, pleeeeease!

"The return of the King"

Holy shit! Comical Ali is back! Beat the rush and bag yourself the Best of Baghdad Bob DVD from the Baghdad Broadcasting Corporation (10% of profits to the Red Cross). I shall be watching with rapt attention. Miss it and you deserve to be hit with shoes.

"Hamster"

To be perfectly honest, I'm disappointed. Only three of you, THREE!!!, have voted for Pretty Woman in the Scaryduck Bad Movie poll. Voting closes midnight on Sunday - VOTE NOW CLOSED - it's not too late to make a difference. Save the small fluffy animals. Think Pretty woman. That is all.

The Scaryduck Archive

"Henley"

Henley-on-Thames, vision of beauty and serenity in the heart of the English countryside. For fifty-one weeks of the year, it’s a sleepy little town in South Oxfordshire, remarkable for nothing except for sending lunatic MPs to Westminster with very, very bad hair.

The other week, however, the place explodes. There’s punch ups everywhere as the country’s titled elite and public schoolboys take on the invading punks, anarchists and ne’er-do-wells in a battle for dominance. Oh, and there’s the rowing regatta as well.

It was into this mix that you throw the local kids. Entrepreneurs to a man, we either got jobs as lowly paid yet hugely tipped waiters to the upper classes getting mind-numbingly drunk on Pimm’s in the Members’ Enclosure,;or charging visiting idiots extortionate rates to park their Range Rovers in the car park of our cadet unit’s drill hall. Every bugger in the town realised there was cash to be made from the Regatta. And having relieved the high-spending visitors of their wedge, this particular bunch of precocius sixteen and seventeen year olds had to spend it somehow.

We took our riches to the off licence.

And got drunk. Very, very drunk. As you do.

Students of the art of teenage boozing will know only too well what will happen next: drunken arsing about.

We went arsing about. In a drunken manner.

As far as I remember, it all started off reasonably well. The usual “I bet you couldn’t jump on that there boat, run round the deck and jump off before the owners twig what’s going on” dare, followed by a certain amount of leering at drunken young ladies, culminating in our ejection from the Wimpy Bar after ordering “A sachet of tomato ketchup and six straws” for only the third time that week.

Drunk and hungry, we ended up on Henley Bridge, scene of some of the more impressive Toffs vs Punx fighting that year. As usual, the Old Bill had won, but the anarchists gave a good account of themselves and the toffs fled for the hills before they even got to try out their masonic handshakes. With cheap larger still coursing through our veins, the drunken arsing about had not yet finished for the evening.

“Y’know,” said Hackett, “You don’t see many people swimming off the bridge these days.”

“That’s true,” said Shed, ever the voice of reason, “that’s cos it’s too blummin’ dangerous.”

“It’s never dangerous,” said Hackett, “It’s well deep out in the middle. I swum out there only a couple of years ago.”

We remembered. We also remembered Hackett almost getting run down by a motor launch and getting fished out by the police.

“I’ll show you how dangerous it is,” he said, climbing up onto the bridge parapet.

It’s amazing how moments like that sober you up. One minute you’re hardly able to walk in a straight line whilst simultaneously looking down the dresses of passing toff-ettes, and next, you’re trying to stop a ragingly intoxicated mate from diving off a thirty foot bridge onto the deck of a passing pleasure craft.

Five of us grabbed Hackett by the ankles, but he jumped anyway. As the boogying hoardes passed beneath us on the “Pink Champagne”, we held an inverted Hackett over their heads as spare change rained down on them.

“You fuckers!” he screamed, oblivious to the fate we had saved him from - if it wasn’t instant death, it was a cold buffet and Huey Lewis and the News, “I want a swim!”

Now, here’s the rub. Have you ever tried to drag a dead weight back over a wall? Even with the five of us rapidly sobering up, it seemed nigh on impossible. We pulled and we pulled and nothing seemed to be happening except the swearing getting louder.

A crowd began to gather. Not to help, mind you, just to watch the high comedy of a group of dickie-bowed drunks trying to help a sixth pissant back over the parapet. Something had to give.

Hackett’s boot came off in my hand. Jez and I stared at it as his free leg now flailed wildly in the air. We had to do something and quick, or the day would be lost. So we threw his boot in the river and called Hackett a cunt. That certainly did the trick. Enraged at the loss of his boot, he suddenly became cooperative and about ten stone lighter. In no time he was back on terra-almost-firma hopping around and cursing Jez, me and the world in general for losing his boot. There’s gratitude for you. Some of the crowd were applauding the free show, but however affluent they were, no offers of free footwear were forthcoming.

We were drunk, it was late, and at least one of our number was rambling around in circles mumbling to himself and wondering why he had nothing in his pockets. Common sense dictated that this would be a good time to cut our losses and go home.

So that’s why Hackett went downstream shouting at passing boats to look for the Great Lost Boot, which had sunk like a stone, never to be seen again; while the rest of us went to the funfair and got even more outrageously drunk, bowking rich brown vomit well into the night from the top of the Waltzer.

I’m not proud enough to say that I spent most of the following day bowking up even more rich brown vomit while my mother repeatedly told me “That’ll teach you to go out drinking.”

Blummin’ Henry, they actually have classes on getting drunk? Where do I sign up?

"BB"

Thank you to Diamond Geezer for reminding me that today is the 100th anniversary of the birth of George Orwell, author of 1984, Animal Farm and Down and Out in London and Paris.

By way of a tribute to his most famous work, I bring you THIS.

First class ticket to Hell, please.

The Scaryduck Archive

"Odds'n'Sods"

A collection of crud that's been jamming up my inbox this week.

419 Project Update: Just a week left in my quest to see how much I can make in a month from Nigerian scam e-mails. Total so far: USD 901,800,000 - it's looking increasingly likely that this time next week, Rodders, we'll be billionaires.

Wang Project Update: Ah! The miracle of science. With this wheelbarrow full of miracle pills offered to me by internet entrepreneurs, my wang has now grown by a massive 415 inches, and by way of a side-effect my man-breasts have expanded by fifteen cup sizes. I fully expect to appear on the cover of the next Marilyn Manson album.

"Can I take your order please?" These people must die. Soon.

And speaking of cnuts: Play Cnut Trumps against the computer.

Drink!: Remember Karyn who set up a website to get idiots to pay off her store cards (and suceeded)? Bradley's doing much the same thing, except he's not beating about the bush. He wants you to send him money for booze. "I've been married for a long time and my only enjoyment comes from drinking. Unfortunately, the money is awful tight and the wife won't raise my allowance." Yup, I can see where he's coming from.

Home: Hey! I can see my house from here!

Idiot: T-shirts for American travellers. Heh. (Spotted by Manic).

Jackanory: I have the urge to give you a shiny new Scaryduck story tomorrow. Either "Ford", "Henley Bridge" or any number between one and thirty-three corresponding to as yet un-written stories. *cough* Twenty-four *cough* Err...choose-o!

Borgnine: The Bad Movie vote remains open until the end of the week. It's just dawned on me that it should have included "any film by Michael Winner". Arses. Vote-o!

The Scaryduck Archive

"Co-Starring Steve Guttenberg"

Good grief, I’ve really gone and opened a can of worms with this one, haven’t I? I asked for bad movies, and both my comments box and my e-mail went crazy with some of the worst motion pictures ever to be committed to celluloid, or in some cases, directly to video. Your cinemtic horrors flooded in, some with impassioned pleas for their inclusion of the list of shame.

Now here’s what I’m going to do: We’ve had over one hundred nominations, which the Scaryduck Film Jury (me) have cut down to fifty, so apologies if your favourite waste of life didn’t make it. We’ve created a poll that’s been set to allow multiple votes, so you can vote for as many films as you like, or if you feel really strongly, for the same film, often. At this stage, if you feel particularly outraged that something’s been missed (am I’m pretty certain that something awful’s slipped through the net), let us know through the comments box, and I’ll replace one of the lower scoring movies in the poll.

At the end of the week, I’ll whittle the list down to a top ten, and there’ll be a battle royal for the shit-stained crown of the Worst Film of All-Time throughout the following week or two.

VOTE NOW CLOSED

The Scaryduck Archive

“Cars”

Damn you Richard Herring, damn your eyes! I swore I wouldn’t do it, but now, thanks to the fat one off the telly, I am now a Consecutive Number Plate Spotter. I took one look at it, decided it would be the saddest thing in Sadshire in the Kingdom of Sad, and promply went out looking for car number plates. I couldn’t help it. It grows on you. And once you’ve started, you can’t stop. And let's be perfectly clear about this, it's only one step removed from writing down train numbers.

Y’see, when I was a kid, and regularly travelling a good hundred miles to visit my grandparents, my dad used to pay us a penny per plate if the numbers added up to nineteen. Ever since then, I’ve been adding up plates, and this is its illogical conclusion.

I’m up to ten already, having seen six, seven and eight all in the same traffic jam, was nearly knocked off my bike by nine and was still calling him a wanker when I saw ten. "Wanker!" I shouted, "oooh!" - that's how it went.

Here’s a couple of tips though: Don’t try CNPS when you’re driving, not unless you want to lose your no claims bonus and regularly witness the sad old faces of pedestrians as they slide across the bonnet of your car. And for God’s sake, don’t tell your wife, girlfriend or significant other what you’re up to - you’ll be labelled a saddo for life in front of family and whatever few friends you have left.

Eleven. God send me one tiny little eleven and I'll be pleased. It's not an obsession. I can stop anytime I want to. Honest. Just as soon as I've got my eleven.

Interesting car number plate fact to emphasise my sadness: In the US, you can pay a few extra dollars and get a plate with virtually anything you want on it (within reason), just like JR Ewing. Over here, you’ve got to be imaginitive and group together letters and numbers and hope that they’ll make a word. A Sikh friend of mine splashed out a small fortune on D 51NGH, and our local slum landlord has BED 51T on his maintenance van. For obvious reasons, the likes of J3SUS and J1HAD have never been issued, but one of my neighbours paid a shedload of ackers for K9 0RGY, the manky old spunker.

“Harry Potter and the Shedload of Cash”

Broke? Too idle to read the latest Harry Potter door-stop? So were we, but we sidled down to WH Smiths, flicked through the last ten pages of the epic to see what all the fuss is about. We are now able to tell you that the major character who buys the farm in the Order of the Phoenix is none other than Harry Potter himself. We cornered author JK Rowling and poked her with a dead fish until she granted us an exclusive interview about her dead hero. Why, JK, why?

“I’m sick to death of the speccy little shit,” said the millionaire author, “running around a spooky castle, doing good deeds, unmasking the villain in the final scene. Good grief, I might as well be writing Scooby Doo.”

So you killed him off? Won’t you be antagonising your fanbase a little?

“Too bloody right. Smeared across the front the front lawn of Hogwarts like so much strawberry jam. And about bloody time too. Treacly kids, cardboard cut-out villains, creaking plots and straight home for tea and lashings of ginger beer. I’ve been recycling Enid Blyton plots for years and made a mint. By the time all those eight year olds finally twig, I’ll be off on my tropical island sunning myself. You see if I care.”

And your plans for the final two books in the series?

“If I can be arsed to write them you mean? I’m going to drag those little shits out of the 1950’s and into the twenty-first century where they belong. You know what it’s like writing childrens fiction? Hell, I tell you. Hell! I’ve got a cast of characters too scared to look down in case they notice they’ve got genitals. That’s going to bastard change now that they’ve reached sixteen. It’s going to be grittier, racier, and I don't just mean Ron tackling a bad case of acne. All hell's going to break loose in Potions Class, I can yell you.”

How, exactly?

“You know me - no names, no pack drill, no plot leaks. But nipple clamps will feature heavily. As will golden showers, rimming, sado-masochism and goats.”

Rather more detail than we were actually expecting there, truth be told, JK. And what will you be calling this epic now that the rather-too-dead Mr Potter is no longer part of the deal?

“Hermione Granger and the Clockwork Cucumber of Cthulhu.”

You filthy old moo. One final question - what’s it like having the same name as the lead singer of Jamiroquai?

“Piss off.”

Note to very rich lawyers: This was an interview with JK Rowling, drunken fantasist and refuse collector for Brighton City Council, and not JK Rowling, the utterly charming author. Honest

Scaryduck Platform Nine and Three Quarters

”Dictionary Corner”

A new edition of the Oxford English Dictionary was released last week, obviously pushed out quickly to beat the Harry Potter rush. These new releases seem to be a monthly occurrence these days, and from some of the words in the new edition, it appears they have my evil twin working for them. Which is more than a mite disturbing, I thought I was the evil twin.

Nonetheless, it’s pleasing, nay gratifying, to see that a large percentage of my vocabulary is now Official Queen’s English. As a matter of fact, Her Majesty’s always consulting her gaydar these days (a gift from Queen Beatrix of the Netherlands), and slipping combinations of the following into everyday usage:

* bitch-slap
* buggeration
* gaydar
* queercore
* shedload
* shitload
* shouty
* skanky
* wazzock

All I want to know is how wazzock managed to stay out of the OED for so long? I’ve been using it since I was a kid, and I’m certain that was the original name for The Wurzels. And where the hell is “twunt”? The wazzocks.


“Scaryduck’s ‘Did You Know...?’ No. 1117”

The classic poem:

Here I sit
Broken hearted
Paid my penny
Only farted

...was penned by the world famous wit Oscar Wilde in 1896. The original has been preserved for the nation, and may be inspected, for a small charge, in the Gentlemen’s toilets at the British Museum.

The Scaryduck Archive

“Scaryduck’s ‘Did You Know...?’ No. 1386”

Nuns must be fully proficient in all forms of martial arts including Tae-Kwon Do, Judo, Karate and Pub Brawling. They are also trained in every form of kinky fetish, including sex toys, fisting, golden showers and girl-on-girl action so that they know where and when to avoid temptation. Any nun that can't drink twelve pints of "Heavy" without going to the toilet is drummed out of the order.

Nuns are great, aren't they? They're just like penguins only they don't stink of fish, and they're genuine laydez underneath. Brilliant. Let's hear it for nuns!

The Scaryduck Archive. Now with nuns.

“A film by Alan Smithee”

An “Alan Smithee” is a film that is so bad or has been badly recut against the creative talents’ wishes, that the director or producer has asked to have their name removed from the credits. The Direcotrs’ Guild says somebody’s got to be credited with this particular work of art, and that man is Alan Smithee. The name is now in common usage and even has its own entry on imdb. He’s even had a movie made of his life. I bet it sucks.

There really ought to be a science devoted to bad film making. I’m not talking low-budget B-movie trash like Plan Nine from Outer Space and Santa Claus Conquers the Martians which wear their badness as a badge of pride. I’m talking big-budget Hollywood epics, promoted by idots in sharp suits, convinced they’re plugging the next Citizen Kane. I’m also talking rip-offs, exploitation movies, mindless sequels, trash masquerading as quality and anything featuring Eddie Murphy. I bet at least one of you has paid good money to see Blair Witch Project II. And I bet there’s someone, somewhere, who thinks “it’s not that bad, actually.”

And that’s what I’m after - nominations for the Worst Film of All-Time. It’s out there. For every Spinal Tap there’s a Glitter. For every Ghostbusters there’s a ...err.. Ghostbusters II. I’m looking for movies which you’ve actually seen and have written to the producers asking for two hours of your life back plus damages for mental cruelty. I’ve managed to avoid “Glitter” and “Battlefield: Earth” and my life is all the better for it, but I’ve more that paid for this with repeated exposure to “Spiceworld”. You've seen them. You've laughed. You've cried. You've cried some more. Get it off your chest. Here's some to be getting on with:

Spice World - Excuse: Pre-school daughter. It was dated even when it came out. Quite what Richard E Grant was thinking when he took a major part in this extended video promo is beyond me, apart from “Oooh! A big pile of cash!” Taught me to avoid the recent S Club movie, and for that I am thankful.

Spaceballs - Blazing Saddles, Young Frankenstein, The Producers, there’s no denying Mel Brooks is a genius. And then he came up with this. By the time this movie was over, there were two of us left in the auditorium. I thanked the usherette for her patience, bought a choc-ice and left.

Star Trek V: The Final Frontier - plagued by production difficulties, budgetary restraints, industrial action and a poor script. And then they let William Shatner direct.

Speed II: Cruise Control - Essentially flawed by the fact that cruise liners, as far as I know, do not travel at any great speed. And the fact that it is complete and utter arse.

Flesh Gordon - Why, in the name of humanity, WHY? A cult movie in our school, right up to the moment we actually saw it.

You know the form by now. Speak your Brains. Give me bad films, tell me why. Nominate-o!

"Cow"

There’s nothing like a school trip to take you away from the drudgery of the classroom. A day on a coach singing filthy songs, a mooch around a musuem somewhere and then back just in time for home-time. At our school, it didn’t work that way. School trips consisted of an afternoon at Sonning Farm, a visit so dire that even the most hardened skivers were dragged screaming onto the bus, begging for double maths.

It wasn’t even a proper day out. Sonning Farm was literally five minutes up the road. In fact, my house actually backed onto their fields where I walked my dog every day, so it was hardly a trip into the unknown. On a good day, we could be there, do the tour, and be back again within the hour. Whoop de doo.

The farm is owned by the University of Reading, one of the few universities in the country that offers courses in agriculture and shit-shovelling, with a degree ceremony held with the students downwind. They get all kinds of grants to show local schoolkids round the place, and now, it seemed it was our turn. Again.

The first thing you notice getting off the bus is the shit. You’re standing in it. Sonning Farm has cows. Lots and lots of cows, and there are literally rivers of cow piss and crap all over the place. For the one poor kid who didn’t read the letter home about the trip and is now up to his ankles in fetid crap in his best school shoes, it’s a bitter pill to swallow.

So, we got the guided tour. We saw shitty fields full of cows, a cowshed full of cows and shit, and a milking parlour featuring the peculiar fragrance that is Givency’s Eau de Cowshit. The post-grad student leading us around was far too enthusiastic about his job, knowing far too much about grassland quality than was absolutely necessary. Look bub, cows eat grass, cows shit on grass, grass grows. Now get us away from the shit.

Instead, he took us to meet one of the cows. It was probably called Daisy, though “Shitbag” would probably have been more apt. Despite supposedly being a country school, most of the kids had been born and brought up in the rough end of London, and moved out to the sticks in a well-meaning rehousing programme that turned them from urban thugs to suburban psychopaths. We didn’t want to see cows. We wanted action. A cow was a big, smelly, foreign thing that is best viewed in picture books with very large writing. Cows up close aren’t cute and should never, ever be called “Daisy”.

Now, there’s a thing about cows. Neither end is safe, and the middle bit isn’t exactly a bed of roses either. Michaela got too near the front, and before you knew it, the evil bastard ate her straw hat and had made a start on her coat before anyone realised what was going on. But it was the rear end that caused all the trouble. I’m pretty sure that if you had four stomachs, rather like Bernard Manning has, you too would spend your entire life constantly pissing, farting and shitting, so in that respect you can hardly blame the cow.

You try telling that to Helen’s mum. Poor, sweet Helen, the quietest girl in the class, never one to push to the front of the crowd, was left standing far to close to Daisy’s arse than was absolutely safe.

“Oooh!” she said, in surprise and alarm. “Ooooooh!!!!”

Her cries turned to screams when the rest of the class realised what was going on. Daisy had sprayed.

The tail had gone up, much like the ramp that launches Thunderbird Two, but Helen hadn’t noticed. She was hit front on by an explosion of crap in unimaginable quantities. Just when she thought the ordeal was over, the piss started. Gallons of it. A stream that lasted a full twenty seconds as girls screamed, boys backed away and student-farmer stood in stunned silence. Helen was rooted to the spot, her poo-strewn clothes now getting hosed down by a raging torrent of wazz. It was deeply, deeply shocking, and hence incredibly funny. I am also led to understand that people pay good money for videos of this kind of thing.

Helen was ushered off, shivering and crying to the farmhouse, where the farmer’s wife took one look at her, screamed, and set a hose onto her. She was allowed to sit at the front on the coach journey home, on her own, with the rest of the class huddled together in the back three rows. We sympathised with the poor girl, but not enough to share the stink.

Contrary to what you expect, we didn’t make her entire school life hell by mentioning this incident whenever possible and giving her with childish names like “Cowshit Connor”. Not to her face, anyway. Her brother was captain of the school rugby team, and in terms of face-pummelling, that counted for a lot.

The Scaryduck Archive

"Let's Start a War"

Gay Bar by Electric Six - official video - real video

Gay Bar by Electric Six - Viking Kittens edit.

Gay Bar by Electric Six - Truly astounding Dubya and Tony edit - needs flash or quicktime

"There's nothing wrong with Eastbourne..."

...there's always the streets. This bloke really ought to get out more. On second thoughts, that's how it all started in the first place.

“Scaryduck’s ‘Did You Know...?’ No. 39”

Vampires and Werewolves can be kept away from your house at night by repeatedly playing Celine Dion CDs at full volume. This also works for people who are not werewolves or vampires.

"Tomorrow"

An all-new Scaryduck Story. "Ford" or "Cow". Your choice. Choose-o!

The Scaryduck Archive

"None More Black"

I now declare that the Greatest Film Ever Made poll is now closed. After a series of unfortunate ballot-stuffing episodes, it is my immense pleasure to announce that the finest piece of celluloid in the known universe is THIS IS SPINAL TAP.

Due to other commitments, director Marty DeBergy is unable to collect his award, so the commemorative cucumber-wrapped-in-tinfoil will have to stay down my trousers for the time being.

Next week, Scaryduck will be asking for your opinions on the WORST movies you've ever seen. Thinking caps: on.

"And now it's only six foot four"

I expect you've all been asking yourselves about my wang, haven't you? At the start of this month, I decided to scan through all my e-mails and work out how long the Mighty Mallet would be if I took up every single offer of "manhood enhancement" that passed through my mailbox. And it's not been without its sacrifices.

Many of these e-mails are filled with all kinds of nasties and spyware, so even in the act of opening them, I've sentenced myself to a lifetime of donkey sex spammage.

So, for the first two weeks of The Wang Project, I've received no less than fifty-nine unsolicited offers of turning my dong into a DONG, adding an impressive 212 inches to its length. You'd have thought I'd be pleased with having and eighteen foot member, and frankly, I am. But it was not until recently that I received help in that thorny problem: Hung like and elephant, normal sized plums. That is, until now. I have received no less than two separate offers to increase the size of my nads, so now I can have my cake and eat it. Nob that can be used in the Olympic Pole Vault, and nadgers like coconuts. Fan-bloody-tastic. And all thanks to the interweb.

Not only am I now hung like a Blue Whale, I'm stinking, filthy rich too. For the last two weeks, I've also been collecting Nigerian 419 scam e-mails. I'm hoping to break ONE BILLION UNITED STATES DOLLARS for the month, and so far I'm greatly encouraged. Thanks to the legions of entreprenuers hammering away at their keyboards in downtown Lagos, I've been offered a staggering USD 445,500,000 so far this month. And who says there's no money to be made on the net?

Natch, once I've got my Nigerian money, I'm going to have an operation to make my nob normal again.

“Scaryduck’s ‘Did You Know...?’ No. 48”
If you leave the hazard warning lights flashing on your car, you can park anywhere you like, even on the pitch during the FA Cup Final. You may remember the famous "Capri Ghia" final of 1978.

The surgically enhanced Scaryduck Archive

”Salvation”

I’m beginning to worry about Nathaniel, our local Jehovah’s Witness. For years he’s ploughed a lonely furrow outside the den of iniquity that is Blockbuster Video, trying to spread the word to an unlistening congregation. I saw him, bright eyed and bushy tailed first thing the other morning, accosting old dears coming out of the Post Office and chasing frightened holiday-makers into Boots the Chemist.

“Jesus thinks you’re special,” he said to me.

“Ooh, ta very much,” I replied, well pleased that at least somebody in the world likes me.

Then I got thinking about it. Did he mean I was “Special” special, or “Special Bus” special? If it was the latter, I would have willingly gone back there and biffed his lights out and forced him to eat his satchel-full of Watchtowers, cold and without sauce.

I needn’t have worried. As I went back the same way just before lunchtime – and somewhat richer after selling my bike to the suckers at second hand shop – the heat of the day and a myriad of rejections was already taking their toll. The eyes were wide and wild, the carefully slicked back hair was all over the place, and the joy of Christ’s love may have ebbed away somewhat.

“OI! YOU! JESUS SAYS YOU’RE FUCKING SPECIAL!”

and

“TAKE A PISSING WATCHTOWER OR I’LL STICK IT UP YOUR ARSE!”

and

“YEAH? JESUS MAY LOVE YOU BUT I THINK YOU’RE A BUNCH OF WANKERS!”

Pray for him. Or not. Your call.

The Scaryduck Archive. Or Hell. Whatever.

“Apropos of Nothing”

This is Phil Collins, all-round Mr Nice Guy and purveyor of third-rate tunes to an easily-pleased public, pictured talking “Nonce Sense” on the infamous Brass Eye Special, which made him look a twunt. He is also the man responsible for The Worst Concert I Ever Went To. Genesis. Supported by Paul Young. At Wembley Stadium. A day from hell that still has me waking up in a cold sweat at three o’clock in the morning. The reasons for this crapness are many.

* My mates all pulled out at the last minute, leaving me as Billy No-mates in a crowd London’s smuggest.
* Young produced the world’s worst version of Love Will Tear Us Apart, earning himself a permanent position on Scary’s List of Death.
* Phil Collins is a twunt.
* Said twunt’s idea of crowd participation is to try to get the audience to raise the stadium six feet in the air, anexercuse which even the smuggest of London were embarrassed to take part in.
* Princess Diana was there.
* They played Easy Lover, judged the world’s most annoying yuppie anthem, and a reason for the abandonment of gun control.
* Phil Collins is a twunt.

There. It's out now. Nothing like a good cathartic rant to end the week. Cheers Phil. You twunt.

(This entry was going to employ liberal use of the word "cunt", but I chickened out. Sorry.)

“Scaryduck’s ‘Did You Know...?’ No. 972”

After performing a tearful “Candle in the Wind” at the funeral of Diana, Princess of Wales, Elton John planned to sing his 1984 hit “I’m Still Standing” by way of an encore. Unfortunately, he was forced to drop the idea when all the religious stuff made the service over-run.

"And"

Apologies for the text alignment problems I'm experiencing at the moment. Y'see, there's a new version of blogger out, and...

The Scaryduck Archive

“ANOTHER IMPORTANT ANNOUNCEMENT”

Former UN General Secretary Boutros Boutros Ghali says: A quick reminder that next Tuesday is National Take Your Otter to Work Day. If you haven’t got an otter, voles or badgers are fine; but, please, no stoats or weasels as they only spend the day misusing the photocopier and ringing up their mates in Australia. And please, let’s not have a repeat of last year’s fiasco: National Bring Your Man-Eating Lion to Work Day is FRIDAY.

“Scaryduck’s ‘Did You Know...?’ No. 1118”

If you run a barcode scanner over any zebra, it will read the number '666'. Proof positive that this figure is indeed the number of the beast.

The Scaryduck Archive

“Urgent - For the LOVE OF GOD, please READ THIS!!!

I don't normally forward warnings about scams, but a close friend forwarded me this one this one and it looks important:

There is another scam going on out there. You should send this to any women you know and care about. If a man comes to your door and says he is conducting a survey and asks you to show him your beaver, DO NOT SHOW HIM YOUR BEAVER! This is a scam. He is only trying to see your beaver.

Thank you.

“Scaryduck’s ‘Did You Know...?’ No. 1116”

The first words ever spoken on a live television broadcast were made by Edgar Ponsonby-Smythe, who uttered the immortal words "Is it on yet? It is ? Oh fuck a pig", and was immediately sacked."

"Operation Antarctic Freedom"

The penguin revolution has begun. Flightless birds of the world unite! You have nothing to lose but your fish! Oh dear.

The Scaryduck Archive

"Foot"

I broke my foot once, one of the metatarsals. And just like David Beckham, I did it playing football. He at the time was earning sixty squillion a week as a footballer and clotheshorse. I, on the other hand, was on four hundred quid a month from the Civil Service and playing for laughs on a Sunday.

To say I broke my foot playing football is, to be honest, stretching the truth somewhat. I was in my football kit, and I was involved with a football match, but the rest is just the result of sheer stupidity, as usual.

I was trying to buy a car, had seen the rust bucket I wanted in Exchange and Mart and had rung the number mercilessly for days trying to get my filthy hands on the thing. The bastards wouldn’t answer the phone. What was wrong? I had good cash money for them and they didn’t have the decency to pick up the blower.

By Sunday morning, I was getting a bit pissed off with the whole affair, but with a football match at Twyford Rec to get to, I decided to knock the whole camping on the telephone thing on the head and spend a morning getting kickedaround a field instead. Besides, other members of my family might want to use the phone at some stage.

I got to Twyford on my bike in the nick of time, got changed, and on the way out to the pitch, I noticed a sign saying there was a phone in the bar. No problems, I’d give the car one last try at half-time.

I played forty-five minutes of football, darting down the left wing, generally losing the ball and getting kicked up in the air on a regular basis by a right back who resembled Giant Haystacks. I fidgeted through the coach’s team talk “Don’t just take it, kick the bastard back!” was his advice to me, and I darted up to the bar to make that all-important call.

It connected. It rang. And rang. And rang. And rang. No answer. Nothing new there, the slack non-car-selling bastards.

A shout up the stairs: “Oi! Scary! You coming or what? We’re about to kick off!”

Arses. I had forgotten about the match...

I sprung down the stairs from the bar, taking them three at a time in my football boots. Bad idea. Four steps from the bottom, my left foot skidded out from under me, and before I knew it, I was face down on the dressing room floor. I remembered a loud SNAP!, my right foot exploding in agony, and just one word:

“FUCKINHELLSTEETHJESUSCHRISTONABIKE!”

The boot came off, and before I knew it, my foot had swollen up to double its normal size.

“Run it off lad”, said the coach.

So I did. It was fucking eye-popping agony, and there was no way I was going to play another forty-five minutes of football.

Dejected, I hobbled to the Kings Arms, pushing my bike. I showed the club foot to my father who was putting in some serious arm-work in the Public Bar, on account of him being a doctor.

“Run it off lad”, he said, “there’s nothing wrong with you.”

So I took the dog for a walk. Funnily enough, it was still fucking eye-popping agony, and two days later it was purple, green and black and attempts to “run it off” resulted in fits of foul language and hopping around in a circle, like a sweary Indian rain dance.

I went to the Royal Berkshire Hospital for a second opinion, where after three seconds of their prodding and my screaming they found it was broken. It was only a minor fracture, and I didn’t even get a cast - just a couple of bandages and a walking stick which doubled up as a handy golf club.

Faced with the facts, Doctor (now Professor) Scary replied that he was a virologist and hadn’t worked in General Practice for over twenty years. Fair enough, I asked for that. If I had injured my arse, however, I would have had no problems.

The following week, I saw the same car in Exchange and Mart. The phone number was one digit different from the previous week, presumably the work of a misprint. GAH! I dialled the number. The car was sold. ARSES!

Yes, my right foot still aches. All the bastard time. Can I have a new one? Size nine.

The Scaryduck Archive

"Fifty Things You Couldn't Care Less About Scaryduck"

I appear to have picked up a lot of new readers in the last few days, so I thought it might be a good idea to start at the ground floor again to get the uninitiated up to speed. Everybody else in Blogland has a "Fifty things you didn't know..." page, so as usual I’m the last person on the bandwagon. Good grief, I’ll be doing “Friday Fives” next.

1. I was born in 1966, the same year England won the World Cup
2. I was born in yuppie’s paradise, Parson’s Green, London, twenty years before the yuppies got there
3. I lived in Hammersmith for the first five years of my life
4. I lived in Vancouver for a year
5. As a kid, I also spent time in Seattle (it was closed) and Belfast (it rained)
6. I moved to Twyford, near Reading in 1972, which is where most of the Scary Stories occured. By the grace of God, it’s still standing.
7. I moved to Charvil, a bit closer to Reading in 1982, where I lived near 60s singer Mary Hopkin and the late, great Kenny Everett
8. I moved into Reading in 1989, I had no famous neighbours, but the creepy bloke next door may have been in the Russian Mafia
9. I have a younger brother and an older sister who live in Hertfordshire and Cheshire respectively. We’re close like that.
10. My father, Professor Scary, is a virologist; while my mother was a State Registered Nurse.

11. At various times, I have gone under the aliases Albert O’Balsam, Bob de Bilde, Patrick Bateman, Peter Pervert, A Valued Microsoft Customer and Charles “Charlie” Charles on the internet
12. I once had a dental operation that led to me wearing a boxer’s gumshield glued to my teeth for six months. It made me look an utter twat and led to life-long mental scars
13. I went to school in Wargrave and ended up with nine O Levels and a CSE in Techincal Drawing.
14. I went to Bracknell college, where I discovered alcohol and left with three rubbish A Levels and a hangover.
15. My first job was at the Dole Office in Reading. I spent three further years as a civil servant at the Ministry of Agriculture, where I met Mrs Scary
16. I’ve now worked for fourteen years in the same job for a large broadcaster
17. In the line of duty, I’ve been to South Korea, Japan, The Congo, Nigeria, Cameroon, Cyprus and Jordan. And Evesham.
18. I got robbed by bandits in the Congo. How we laughed.
19. Mrs Scary and I got married in 1991.
20. We’ve got two kids: Scaryduckling and Scaryduck Jr.

21. We moved to Weymouth in 2002 to escape the rat-race
22. Unfortunately, I still work in Reading, leading to a bizarre twilight zone existance and an intimate knowledge of the South West rail network.
23. You can still find my first sappy website here.
24. I speak French and German, and can read Russian.
25. I once broke my foot in bizarre circumstances.
26. I once broke my sister’s nose in bizarre circumstances.
27. I once broke my best friend’s thumb in bizarre circumstances.
28. If you believe everything written on this site, my entire life has been dogged by bizarre circumstance.
29. I captained the school chess team which won the Berkshire schools trophy. My finest moment of glory, for which Mr Stafford gave me fifteen house points.
30. I was knocked unconscious on my thirteenth birthday by my sister.

31. My next door neighbour topped himself on my thirteenth birthday. And the presents were rubbish too.
32. My first Scary story “I was a teenage bomber” was read out on the Danny Baker radio show.
33. I started writing, however, in 1987 with an article about the state of Wembley Stadium in a football magazine.
34. I wrote regularly for The Gooner fanzine for over ten years.
35. I support the mighty Arsenal Football Club after my father tried to get me to support Chelsea.
36. My maternal grandfather was a shipbuilder, who actually built a ship - HMS Torquay - that his son, my uncle, served on in the Royal Navy.
37. My paternal grandfather, a genuine cockney as it happens, served as NCO aircrew in the RAF during the Desert Campaign in World War Two.
38. The first record I bought was the Ying Tong Song by The Goons, after telling people for years that it was, in fact, "Pop Music" by M.
39. The first album I bought was Kings of the Wild Frontier by Adam and the Ants.
40. My first gig was Ultravox at the Hammersmith Odeon, but I’ve seen New Order five times since. Yes, I was a New Rom and I had no shame.

41. I was once a member of Mensa, but I have now made a full recovery.
42. I once told spoonbender Uri Geller to fuck off.
43. I onced own a Korg Poly 61 keyboard, and played in a band called Afansor. We sucked. I sold the keyboard to pay for my TV licence.
44. I’m currently studying for a degree with the Open University. Unfortunately, there are no amusing anecdotes associated with this fact.
45. I once worked in a pub, where the manager kept falling down the stairs into the cellar.
46. I’ve got a lesbian mentallist cat, and a small dog who is still too young to bear any mental scars.
47. I once nearly had a vasectomy, but the operation was cancelled because Princess Diana died. I never went back.
48. I once broke my finger in a rubber johnnie machine.
49. I got paid GBP1000 by the Guardian for writing this stuff. I spent the money on a boiler.
50. My real name is Alistair. I blame the parents.

The Scaryduck Archive

"Saturday Link-o-rama"

A big "Boo! Nay!" to ebay, who have mercilessly stomped on the Ghost in a Jar craze this weekend, yanking some of the best items off its servers. Gone are the Ghost of Weapons of Mass Destruction in a Jar and the GiaJ Movie rights, but the auction for the rights to ghost-in-a-jar.com is still going strong at $212.50.

A big "Woo! Yay!", however, to crab-bloke Joel Veitch who won not one, but two Webby Awards for rathergood.com. We'll make a web superstar of Nohands yet.

One from the old skool. That video of Anthea Turner getting blown up (1.38MB download). I could watch this one over and over. As a matter of fact, I just did.

Yet more "Woo Yay!" for Weebl and Bob's first birthday. Hot poop, my eyes!

How evil is George W Bush? This site is keeping a scorecard, so you don't have to. But no matter what he does, he's still nowhere as evil as this guy.

"Bashing the Bishop"

Got this in a spam today:

"Young Cherries About To Get Poped !"

He's a dirty bastard is His Holiness.

"419 Update"

It's been a week since I started collecting Nigerian spam. So far, I've managed to raise a whopping THREE HUNDRED AND SIX MILLION UNITED STATES DOLLARS for the Scaryduck retirement fund, including and impressive USD 82,000,000 from a relative of the Iraqi Finance Minister. This has made me so happy, I just want to give all these kind, generous people a big manly hug.

"Wang Update"

After a couple of days when I received nothing but e-mails selling Pheromones and generic Viagra, the Increase Your P.e.n.i.s. Size spams have started rolling in again. The Wang-o-Meter currently reads fifty-five inches of meaty goodness. Whaddaya think of that eh girls? Girls?

Maybe this isn't the right moment to mention that Naked Blog rates me as (and I quote) "surely the campest weblog in the discovered universe". Camp? Moi? The only camping I've ever done is the tented variety. I dunno, it must be all the duckies.

Still time to vote in the movie poll below. There'll be more movie goodness soon, where I'll be asking for the worst movie you ever wasted two hours of your life on. Nominations already open.

The Scaryduck Archive

"Slacking Off: The Movie"

It appears that my choice of Ghostbusters as The Greatest Movie Ever Made has stirred up a certain amount of controversy. So, in the interests of democracy, I’ve decided to put the whole affair to a vote. I’ve whittled out all that Citizen Kane and Casablanca shit that no bugger’s going to vote for, and have come up with the definitive top ten list of slacker comedy movies. There are no other genres worthy of our attention (except, perhaps, the “Ebony Humpers” series). So, gentlemen, start your engines...

Animal House: Let’s look at the facts here - Lord of the Rings never had a toga party; and frankly, the road trip scene in the Seven Samurai left a lot to be desired. Nope, the world revolves around bar-room philosophising, and this movie is the proof. Belushi is the living embodiment of how modern life should be tackled. Apart from all that stuff about drink, drugs an’ dying, but hey, nobody’s perfect.

“If you lay one finger on that poor sweet helpless girl, you'll despise yourself forever”. “You homo.”

Fletch: Masterpiece performance from Chevy Chase as wise-ass reporter getting in far too deep for his own good.

“This little proposition doesn't entail me dressing as Little Bo-Peep, does it? “

Blazing Saddles: The king of bad taste movies from the king of bad taste Mel Brooks. It was a toss up between this, The Producers (“Springtime for Hitler”) and Young Frankenstein. Erratic genius.

“Mongo only pawn... in game of life.”
“Goddammit, Mr. Lamarr, sir, you use your tongue purdier than a twenny dollar whore!“
“You be my guest, and I be your host. What be your pleasure, Jim?” “I don't know... play chess... screw...” “Let's play chess!”

This is Spinal Tap: The best documentary, or if you will, “rockumentary”, about a non-existent rock band, ever.

“As long as there's, you know, sex and drugs, I can do without the rock and roll.”
“These go to eleven.”
“Big bottom, big bottom / Talk about mud flaps, my baby's got 'em!”

Caddyshack: Films about golf are not funny. NOT FUNNY! Except this one.

“Not golfers, you great fool! Gophers! THE LITTLE BROWN, FURRY RODENTS!”

Withnail and I: Shambolic tale of two ne’er-do-well actors’ holiday somewhere in the Dark Ages. Richard E Grant ended up doing “Spiceworld”, which shows that it was downhill all the way after this peak.

“Who says it's a Camberwell Carrot?” “I do. I invented it in Camberwell, and it looks like a carrot.”
“We want the finest wines available to humanity, we want them here, and we want them now!”
“Slappers!”

Braindead: One word - Zombies!

“Your mother ate my dog!” “Not all of it.”
“I kick arse for the Lord!”

Ghostbusters: The great movie of all time, and I shall be regularly fixing the vote to make sure it wins. Err...

“Everything was fine, until dickless here cut off the power grid!” “Is that true?” “Yes, Your Honour, this man has no dick.”
"If somebody asks you if you're a God you say YES!"

Monty Python’s Life of Brian: Hang on, if Ghostbusters is the best film ever, what about this one? Like Mel Brooks, it was a toss-up between Brian and Holy Grail.

“He's not the Messiah. He's a very naughty boy!”
“All right! I am the Messiah!” “He is! He is the Messiah!” “Now, fuck off!”
“What’s this? ‘People called Romans, they go the house?’”

Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure: Forget all that quasi-religious shite in The Matrix, this is all the evidence you need that Keanu is the second coming. Dude.

“I'm Bill S. Preston, Esquire.” “And I'm Ted "Theodore" Logan.” “And together, we are WYLD STALLYNS!”
“Put them in the iron maiden.” “Iron Maiden? Excellent!”
“Strange things are afoot at the Circle-K.”

These are your nominations. Vote-o! Write-in votes will be accepted in the "Speak your Brains" section. That is all.

Edit: The vote is now closed.

The Scaryduck Archive

Leaving Do

Dave was a jockey. He came down from Liverpool with a talent for stealing the hubcaps off horses and got a job at one of the famous stables in Lambourne in the Berkshire Downs. However, it soon became apparent that this Stable Lad had one handicap - in the world of horse racing, small is beautiful, and this jockey wouldn’t stop growing. And that is how Dave left the world of gee-gees behind him and ended up bored out of his skull in the same office as me at the Ministry of Agriculture.

The Horses were never far from his mind. On a typical day, you’d find him at his desk, hiding behind a huge pile of files, on the phone to his bookies, a copy of the Sporting Life sitting in his lap.

In a fit of anti-gambling fervour, we eventually confronted him over his habit.

“Dave,” we said, “You’re wasting your money on the nags, you’ll end up in mounds of debt.”

“Oh yeah?” he said.

“Err... yeah.”

So we kept a tab on his gambling habits. He ended the month seven hundred quid up, and handed in his notice.

“It’s no good lads, this isn’t the life for me. I’m off to see the world.”

He worked off his notice period, his feet getting itchier by the day, racking up even bigger wins on the horses, while selling of his huge record collection to pay for his world tour, mostly to me.

And so, come his final day, he sprung a surprise on the rest of the office. He’d put three hundred quid behind the bar at the Hexagon, and anyone who would like to come and help him drink it would be more than welcome. It was a no-brainer. Spend a Friday afternoon writing letters to Irish beef farmers in a dull concrete office block, or get stupidly drunk in the cultural hub of Reading? Mine’s a large one. A very large one.

The Hexagon is actually a theatre. A horrible concrete theatre of absolutely no character whatsoever, whose annual highlight is Keith Chegwin doing the panto every Christmas. It does, however, have one redeeming feature. It was the bar closest to our office. And as news of Dave’s generosity got round, the place was heaving with civil servants happily knocking back the free booze.

The place was heaving, and pretty soon it was nigh on impossible to move. A trip to the bar could take up to twenty minutes, so we ordered three rounds at a time. With the amount of alcohol being consumed, it was inevitable that sooner or later somebody was going to need to go to the can.

And that’s where the trouble started. The toilets were a good thirty yards away across a bar full of tightly packed and gently swaying civil servants. Dave, who’d been drinking since the place opened, was in no fit state to make the trip.

“Ladsh!” he slurred, “I needs a pish!”

Fair play to him, he made a brave attempt to force his way through the crowds, but the sheer numbers, the constant interruptions from his new drinking buddies attempting to wish him well and shake his hand and his total inability to put one leg in front of the other soon saw him back at our table. A desperate man, he looked around for an alternative.

There was a pot plant. It was a big tub on the floor with a small tree, which may or may not have been plastic.

Dave looked at the plant. We looked at Dave. Dave staggered to his feet, his intention clear.

“Dave mate,” said our boss Chris in his scariest voice possible, “I wouldn’t do that if I was you.”

Unfortunately, Chris’s warning had absolutely no authority whatsoever. How could you take the bass player from a Blues Brothers tribute band called Bluez Cruize seriously? This is a man who could recite the words to “Shake Your Tailfeather” in his sleep, and was therefore put in charge of regulating beef and pork cold stores by the UK government.

Out came Dave’s old man, and with a palpable sigh of relief he watered the plastic pot plant. He was lucky - such was the crush that the management didn’t see what had happened. He slumped back in his chair to see our shocked faces.

“Where’s me drink?”

The bar management had certainly missed Dave’s golden shower, but other boozers had not. Faced with the same impossible task of reaching the Gents, they too followed their leader’s example, headed for our corner and happily wazzed away. After the fifth or sixth punter, a river of piss was now gently flowing across the floor to our feet in a miniature tribute to Wembley Stadium.

Then Dave dropped a bombshell. Literally.

“I need a shit.”

We were mortified.

“No. Dave. Don’t.” “Put your cork in.” “Wait until we get back to work.” “Don’t even think about it.” “I can’t look.”

We looked.

Emboldened by his great liberating wazz and the example of his followers, Drunk Dave dropped his trousers - and those of a delicate disposition had better skip the next line or two - and laid a hefty log and the plant pot. He was just wiping up on one of the plastic leaves, when he was grabbed from behind by two bouncers with trousers still round his ankles and carried through a mysteriously parting crowd to the door.

What was previously a packed, noisy bar was deathly silent. People were already making for the exit. The manager was in apoplexy.

“That’s it! All you Ministry people - you’re all barred!”

Being just about his only lunchtime customers, we remained barred for a whole week.

Dave, as good as his word, went off on his world tour, getting as far as a potted yucca plant in an Australian bar before the money ran out. Within three months he was back at his desk, hidden behind a pile of files on the phone to his bookie. Broke as I was, I sold him his records back.

He is still barred from the Hexagon.

His poo, however, forged a successful career on stage and screen under the name Michael Barrymore.

michael-barrymore.co.uk: "Make some simple changes to your computer and have Michael greet you every time you start up." That's true class, that is.

"Poetry Corner"

Lines on the departure of Arsenal footballer David Seaman to Manchester City in June 2003.

So. Farewell
then
David Seaman.

Former
Arsenal goalie
with your
girlie pony tail.

You took
your safe hands
to rainy Manchester.

We look forward
to our strikers
lobbing Seaman
all next season.

EJ Thribb (aged 13 and a half)

"419 Update"

Still coining it in thank you very much. The Third Annual Nigerian E-mail Conference should keep the spam rolling in (thanks to Bloggerheads). Lovely.

Cash: USD 219,700,000 - ch-ching!
Wang: Twenty-eight inches - a disappointment

"Bum Clouds"

New Weebl and Bob.

"Coming Attractions"

As usual, you, the punter gets to choose tomorrow's bloggage. The story will be either "Cow" or "Ford" which are lined up and ready to go. Alternatively, you may choose a random number between one and thirty-three which corresponds to an as-yet-unwritten Scary story which exists solely as a title and a few barely legible notes. Your choice in the Speak your Brains section, if you'd be so kind.

The Scaryduck Archive

"Take a look at the lawman beating up the wrong guy..."

My university is sending a space probe to Mars. How bloody cool is that? After repeated schoolboy attempts at rocketry while failed to reach the end of the street, it's a bastard great step forward, I can tell you.

Okay, so I slacked off school after falling for the irresistable lure of beer, and somehow fell into a job rather than get a degree and become something boring in the City. But that's allowed me, fifteen regretful years later to sign up to the Open University and finally get that college degree my planet-sized (not to mention modest) intellect desires.

For Americans and those of you who have never stumbled across the Open University, it's a peculiarly British correspondence learning course that gets you a college degree after six years of slog, somehow grafted on to your normal life. It's mostly known, however, for the TV programmes it uses to replace classroom tutorials. Some of them - particularly the maths disciplines - were recorded in the early seventies and featured - let me be charitable - people who obviously didn't pay too much attention to fashion. People, it has to be said, didn't get out much either. Add this to the fact that the programmes are transmitted in the dead of night after regular TV programmes have finished (which in pre-video recorder days must have been hell), and you have the makings of a bizarre underclass of nocturnal students juggling studies, family life, work and Coco the Clown giving a tutorial. God help me, I'm in my fourth year of six discussing economic dynamism in the Asia-Pacific.

And they've put together a space probe that's going to land on Mars at the end of this year. Beagle 2 is part of the ESA Mars Express probe that launched from Baikonur yesterday. It's going to do stuff with dirt, and then take over the planet, or something. And true to form the OU had a man on the spot, cut and pasted straight from a 1973 Maths Tutorial. I felt proud to my boots. My school's sending a space ship to kick some red Martian butt, and your's isn't.

This can only be a good thing. When we let the Martians come to our place, they only went and ripped Woking to shreds, the town that gave us Paul Weller, the philistines. And to get our awful and bloody revenge, we're sending them Blur.

"The 419 Project"

Day three, and those jolly nice people in Nigeria have already promised me USD 126,000,000, of which USD 31,700,000 and 200kg of gold dust is mine to keep. What lovely, lovely people.

"The Wang Project"

What can I say except a big thank you to my friends the spammers for theirkind help in providing me with my dream willy. Just three days into the Wang Project, and the Mighty Mallet has already grown by twenty-eight inches and caused no end of funny looks as I walked round Asda today. Keep it up, as it were.

The Scaryduck Archive in Spaaaaaaaaaaaaace!

"El 26 de Mayo"

This story should have been posted last Monday, but hairy-arsed bikers and evil bastard fluffy kittens dictated otherwise. Better late than never...

May 26th 1989 was a Friday. For most people it was just another ordinary day of work, school, winding down for the weekend. To me, to quote Mr Shankly, it was far more important than that. This day was also the last day of the English football season, a year marked by the horror of the Hillsborough disaster that in which over-crowding, poor stadiums and worse policing had combined to kill ninety-six Liverpool fans. It also marked the resurgence of Arsenal Football Club as a force in the sport, and had they not choked in the previous “easy” matches against Wimbledon and Derby County they would already have been champions by then.

Instead, Liverpool, going for the domestic league and cup double, crushed West Ham 5-0 in their penultimate home match to top the table. It all came down to the last match of the season, the all-conqueroring Liverpool against the young upstarts from North London for the crown. The maths were simple. Arsenal had to go to Anfield and win by two clear goals. The last time Arsenal had won on Liverpool’s home turf, Samuel Pepys wrote a celebratory remark about it in his diary. Eighteen years we had waited for this day, and to be honest, the general opinion was that we had blown it.


Up for grabs -- clicky for bigness

It was a game that you would sell your granny to get your hands on a ticket, and there it was in my hot, sweaty hands, granny sitting on a shelf in the pawn shop. Now there was just the small matter of getting time off work. Bollocks. I had just changed jobs, and was pretty confident of getting the day off as the new boss was a fellow footie fan. Fat fucking chance. The vindictive bastard supported Manchester United, and steadfastly refused on the grounds that a computer that hadn’t actually been switched on yet was rather more important. He prided himself on his loyalty despite living in that hotbed of ManYoo support - Southampton - and the fact that he was a shareholder (total holding: two shares currently valued at GBP 2.70, and the official shareholders’ tie which he wore every single bloody day). He made it absolutely clear, Friday off was a non-starter. I could either like it or lump it. Reluctantly, I sold my precious ticket to a mate, resigned to watching the game on television. And bloody hell, our trade union only went and called a lightning walk-out that day. I had sold my ticket, I had the day off. Thank you, God.

And would you bloody believe it? That particular Friday night also coincided with an “either you see me tonight or we split up” ultimatum from my fiancee. She was getting pissed off at my almost overwhelming obsession with the Gunners as they powered, tripped and faltered towards the title. She had had enough. The “see me tonight” ultimatum also involved various threats to my anatomy if I even mentioned The Beautiful Game. I loved my Arsenal. I still love my Mrs Scary. What was a man to do? Come kick-off time, I was sitting in the beer garden at the Old Bell in Grazeley on a lovely sunny spring evening, my video recorder watching the match for me. Around me were other equally crestfallen young men accompanied by knife-wielding girlfriends. I had never felt so bloody miserable in my entire life.

Driving, I nursed a single pint through the entire evening, and took Mrs Scary home at about 11pm, promising I would love her eternally, and yes, I meant it. Really. Then I drove home, unable to find mention of the match on my car radio because the tuning knob had snapped off in a rather passionate moment several weeks previously. Going through Cemetary Junction in Reading, I was almost forced off the road by a carload of idiots overtaking, flashing their lights and waving like maniacs at me. I had a “Go Go Gunners” sticker in the back window. Could it be? Naaaaah, they HAD to be Liverpool fans taking the piss. Had to.

I arrived home at the same time as my brother. There must have been a full moon or Planet Girlie was rising in Uranus or something, but he too had had an “either you see me or it’s off” night from his girlfriend, and had the scars to prove it. Mightily pissed off at the world, we rewound the video and watched the match from the start.

The game started thirty minutes late due to unprecedented traffic jams between London and Liverpool. I didn’t know it, but Ritchie and my ticket were well over a hundred miles from the ground at the time, now hoping beyond hope just to see the last thirty minutes.

The first half was tense. Both sides had chances to take the lead, but Arsenal rode their luck, along with a fair slice of brutal defending to go in at half-time 0-0. Then, a few minutes into the second, a free-kick was floated into the Liverpool box, and Alan Smith darted in to nod it home. All hell broke loose. Nige and I danced around the living room, while the Liverpool players surrounded the ref and linesman, convinced that Smudge hadn’t touched the indirect free-kick on the way in. We both knealt in front of the TV, praying for the goal.

“The bastards, the cheating, whining bastards! They’re not going to give the goal.”

Our hearts were in our mouths. The ref mouthed something to the lino. The lino nodded, and the ref pointed to the centre spot.

GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAALLLLL!!!!!!

With one down one to go, Arsenal battered and battered at the Liverpool defence, but nothing looked like getting past ateam that had been caught out once, and were determined to cling on to what they had.

“Come on! COME ON!” we shouted oblivious to the fact that it was now past one in the morning and parents were trying to sleep upstairs.

Suddenly with a few minutes to go, Michael Thomas, one of the team’s young stars found himself in a few feet of space in front of goal. He shot... and he scuffed it. Grobelaar grateful scooped up the ball and that was that. Our one big chance. Fucked. The Kop was now in full voice, just minutes away from the precious double, and Brian Moore and the hated former Spurs manager David "Kerb Crawler" Pleat eulogised long and loud about this “great” Liverpool team that was going to win the title. With the clock running down, even the Liverpool players were in self-congratulatory moods, back-slapping, shaking hands, high fives. We just wanted it to end.

At this point, I’m told, Ritchie and Paul, were outside the ground in tears having witnessed the second half convinced that the team had blown it, and they just couldn’t face another Liverpool trophy. Then there was this mighty roar...

With the Kop baying for the final whistle deep, deep. deep into stoppage time, instead of the huge punt you’d expect in the circumstances, Johnny Lukic threw the ball upfield to Lee Dixon. Dicko nudged it to Smith, there’s a lucky ricochet, and all of a sudden he’s played the ball through to Michael Thomas with the goal at his mercy. Time. Stood. Still.

Tunnel vision.

Just me, the television and Brian Moore: “It’s Michael Thomas, charging through the midfield... It’s up for grabs now!!!!!!”

The despairing tackle. The shot. Bruce Grobelaar wrong footed. The copper behind the goal turned away. The net bulged. An explosion of joy. 2-0. Oh my Christ. Nigel and I dance around the room, out into the garden and up and down the street. It was pushing two in the morning and we didn’t give a flying fuck.

We went back and watched the dying moments again. And again. And again. The goal, Tony Adams lifting the league trophy on enemy territory for the first time in eighteen years. If the pubs hadn’t been closed for three hours we would have gone straight out and got blathered. Instead, I played the posh kid, and dutifully went to bed; but for Nige, it was back into the car and a fifty mile dash up to London, just in time to meet the tired, celebrating masses arriving home from Liverpool to join an impromptu street party that had been going on all night.

On the night of the 27th, we all met down the pub in Kingston to swap stories and to get mind-bendingly drunk in the name of Arsenal Football Club. We had, to a man, missed the greatest event in the history of football, ever. And perversely, we wouldn’t have missed it for the world.

My boss got the sack soon after. Result.


"The 419 Project"

Now that 55% of all e-mails are spam, I thought it was high time I did something useful with it. Obsessed that I am with Nigerian scam e-mails, throughout the month of June I shall be keeping a running total of how much money is waiting for me in safety deposit boxes in various locations around the African continent. Already, I've been tempted by a total of USD 74,000,000 and "200 kilogrammes of gold dust" left by a dead diamond miner in Benin, leaving me 18.7M "richer" after everybody's taken their cut. Shame it's just monopoly money...

"The Wang Project"

Obsessed that I am... I'm also going to keep a total on how much longer my wang would be if I took all those pills offered to me by spammers this month. On a high drug diet, I'm certain that the laydez will be using it as a skipping rope by the end of June. I've even created an excel spreadsheet with autosums and everything to keep track of The Mighty Mallet's progress. Total wangage so far - an extra ten inches. *wriggles eyebrows suggestively*

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