Quack

Someone do me a slight favour here. Could someone take the left half of the wave piccie above (it comes in two parts, you can’t get the wood y’know) and photoshop in a rubber duckie riding the surf? I lack the hummus to do it myself and would be eternally grateful towards the person who comes to my rescue, though not to the extent of parting with money.

That is all.

Edit: That's enough ducks, thanks.

The Scaryduck Archive

Greenhouses

God, I hated fishing. To it’s credit, I gave it a go, but just couldn’t see the benefit of sitting by a stinking river for hours on end where - suddenley - nothing happened. I could enjoythe privacy of my own bedroom, thank you very much, and at least derive some sort of pleasure from the experience.

While my brother and Matty next door still wasted their time down the gravel pits and the mill pond, I had bigger fish to fry. And I still had my groundbait catapult. It was ace. Solid metal handle, top quailty rubber and a lovely big pouch, just right for launching a handful of bait into the middle of the stream. But bollocks to that. It also took a nice, big stone, and when I could, Nige’s lead shot from his fishing box. Launched at a distant target, it was lethal.

I took my find to non-fishing Cookie’s house. He was impressed, and within minutes, we had returned from the local fishing shop with a matching pair. There would be hell.

Now, Cookie was my best friend. He was kind, compassionate, always listened to your problems. A true mate. He ran a local animal charity from his bedroom. But woe betide any of God’s fluffy creatures that dared venture into his back garden.

Any number of homemade traps and snares were primed at any one time, carefully crafted in his toolshed with top quality materials, and placed with due care by spirit level and theodolite in the garden for maximum bloodletting. Many is the afternoon I’d go round his place for egg and chips to find some poor mouse or bird bludgeoned to death by some contraption fashioned out of elastic bands, piano wire, a few bent branches and a cricket bat with a breeze block nailed to it.

A lovely, expensive catapult was a new weapon for his armoury. Armed with stones, lead shot and a bag of nails, we went up Bluebell Woods to practice.

Within hours, the air was rent with pinging metal and rocks, and a target nailed to a tree was peppered with ammo. We found that a pouch of several stones was inaccurate, but would spatter nicely like a shotgun. However, a medium-sized stone could hit the target with great accuracy from a good thirty or forty yards. We proved this with a line of bottles we found in a bush, soon to be reduced to a pile of shattered No Deposit, No Return glass.

Over the next days of that fine summer, we honed our skills, until one day, Cookie the animal lover decided it was high time some of the local vermin should become closely acquainted with the art of the catapult. Vermin being any bird or animal that crossed the borders into his garden.

Birds proved to be a problem. We soon found that firing a single stone, straight up into the air, didn’t have the accuracy we would have hoped for. Besides, those darned pigeons seemed to see them coming and dodge out of the way, dropping a curly one on our heads by way of revenge. After fifteen minutes of frustration, and not one twitching corpse littering the garden, it was decided to switch to buckshot.

Handfuls of stones were loaded into our respective weapons, and as the first bird flew over, we let fly.

Missed. Bollocks. Try again.

We reloaded, just as a huge v-shaped formation of geese came over from the gravel pits on their way to the Thames, a few miles away. We couldn’t believe our luck. Goose for dinner - there was a happy, smiling, benevolent God out there who would reward our endeavours. Was there, my arse.

We took aim. We let off simultaneous volleys at the geese. We watched our stones arc into the air, miss the birds by several hundred feet and fall to Earth. To Earth in the farmer’s land behind Cookie’s garden. Farmer’s land which consisted of row after row of tomato-filled greenhouses.

“Jesus Tap-Dancing Christ!”

There was a cacophony of breaking glass which seemed to go on forever. It seemed that the entire nursery was falling apart, pane by sickening pane.

It was all too much. We legged it.

Cookie’s mum and dad were both respected members of the community who did their bit for church and charitable causes. Innocents from a dying, more innocent age, he was still coming to terms with the fact that AA Men didn’t salute you any more, while she didn’t understand frottage, thinking all the world’s problems could be solved with a slap-up tea. As such, we were basically dead meat, with the evidence red hot in our sweaty palms, and it was only a matter of time before we would be fingered.

There was only one thing to do. Destroy!

The bands were cut into tiny pieces of rubber and shoved down the toilet. For six agonising flushes, bits of rubber sat there, mocking us as we waiting for the tank to fill, and for an irate, shotgun wielding farmer to kick the door down and fill us with lead. Then there were the metal handles. To the garage, where we beat them with hammers, crushed them in a vice and smashed them into little pieces. And then we threw them into a bucket of battery acid, just to be on the safe side.

Doorbell.

It was the local police constable, not a stranger to my not-so-good self, investigating alleged criminal damage to some local greenhouses, and would we know anything about it?

“Not us”, officer, we lied, “we’re too busy doing homework.”

“So you know nothing of two youths messing about with catapults then?”

I may as well have that Jack in the Box hat on with a sign saying “It was me! Run me downtown and bugger me senseless in the cells!” If you’re going to lie, make them whoppers.

“Pffffffff.... us? We can’t stand fishing, that’s cruelty to animals that is. Would you like to contribute to our wildlife charity?”

He went away, not entirely convinced, but just to be on the safe side, we went over to the farm a couple of weeks later and offered to help him out, “for nothing, like, mister, it’s a school project on ...err.. market gardening” as guilt got the better of us.

“Thanks, lads”, said Mr Johnson, “You’re a credit to the village. Not like those little bastards who smashed my greenhouses. If I get them, I’ll skin the little shits alive and feed them to the pigs. No-one will ever find their bodies.”

I haven’t seen Cookie for a few years, come to think of it.

The Scaryduck Archive

Changing Rooms

Don't mind me, just farting about with the template. I'll change it back to the old one tomorrow if you all hate it.

Prepare to be judged

Greetings citizens. The closing date for the Guardian British Blog Awards has now passed, and the judging has begun. Judge Scary will be passing amongst you with a critical eye and a copy of the Oxford Dictionary. Stand up straight! You - yes YOU - no slouching!

Don’t drop litter, refrain from chewing gum and remember to say grace before meals. By stomm, there’s still plenty of room in the Iso Cubes.

You don’t think I’m taking this seriously, do you?

Gobble

A Happy Thanksgiving to our American readers. Time to post this photo, then. This means the Festering Season will soon be upon us. Don’t laugh. DO NOT LAUGH. It’s not funny. Mostly.

And a belated Eid Mubarak to any readers who have been observing Ramadan.

Forthcoming Attractions

It's that time of the week again. Time to vote for the Scary story that will appear here tomorrow. Choose between

* Greenhouses - accidental vandalism woe
* Top Shelf - not what you think, starring our very own Balders
* Pomagne - drunken schoolkid woe
* Inflatables - not entirely what you think either, not much woe

I will, additionally, be including any word or phrase you may nominate. Vote-o!

Yay!

A big thanks to those very nice people at Blogger for updating me to banner free. w00t!

The Scaryduck Archive

Scaryduck’s ‘Did You Know...?’ No. 332

In order to improve the dental health of the nation, the British government is to add flouride to all beers, wines and spirits served in British pubs from July 1st 2005. Children will not be forgotten in this ground-breaking piece of legislation - all alcopops and three litre bottles of extra strong cider sold in supermarkets and off-licences will come with added fluoride too, along with a cheery message reminding the kiddies to brush their teeth before bedtime.

Skint

Never one to laugh at the misfortunes of others, it is upsetting, nay distressing to read that Leeds United Football Club may be forced into administration with debts totalling eighty-one million pounds. Now, if only they’d watched daytime television instead of going round starting fights outside bars and getting mixed up with the wrong crowd, and they might have seen those heart-rending adverts featuring Carol Vorderman urging you to sell your mortal soul for a bank loan. According to the lovely and not-in-it-for-the-money-at-all Carol, for just one gentle repayment, they can consolidate their debts and regain the lifestyle to which they’ve become accustomed, with perhaps a little left over for that new car or a holiday.

Not only that, every applicant gets a handy digital alarm clock and an attractive pen set, which will go straight into the squad for the fixture against Charlton Athletic this weekend.

The Scaryduck Archive

The Dog Lady

This is Ollbeek's winning entry in the Make Mrs Duck Laugh competition. His website can be found at http://revolicktion.blogspot.com Enjoy. I did.

The age of fifteen was a very important one for me. I was nearly allowed to buy cigarettes without breaking the law, I had my first ‘proper’ girlfriend and I moved house for the first time in my life. Being fifteen, I didn’t know much about the house moving lark, but luckily my mum was in control of that so I only had minimal stress from the whole operation.

We moved into a quaint end terrace in a (semi) desirable area of my home town, Whitefield. With my two brothers having recently left home to go to university, I had first choice in bedrooms, and being a fifteen year old rebellious type I chose to set up shop in the cellar. Although it had no windows it was extremely comfortable and was big enough for a double bed. Bear in mind I had my first ‘proper’ girlfriend at this stage and so had high hopes for this bed.

After the excitement of the move I was straight to sleep on my first night. It was absolutely pitch black in that cellar, an unforseen bonus of having no windows, and I slept like… well, like a knackered fifteen year old in a pitch black room on a questionably comfortable, but very large, bed.

I wasn’t sure if I was having a nightmare or what, but suddenly I was wide awake. I couldn’t tell what time of day or night it was but, as I was convinced the end of the world was nigh, it didn’t really matter. Coming from somewhere was a noise that could only be described as a jackal being raped by the Hound of the Baskervilles whilst running repeatedly up and down a flight of stairs. I fell up my concrete staircase and burst through my door to be greeted by my mum’s horrified face. Horrified as I’m not a pretty sight first thing in the morning but also because she was hearing the same thing I was.

After much deliberation and investigation all became clear. Our new neighbour, Lynda, was something of a dog lover, and worked shifts in a nursing home. This explained why we were only allowed to view the house at certain times before buying and possibly why the devious gits that lived there before us had wanted out. Lynda had eleven dogs at this stage. All were mongrels and all did stink. However, having just moved there we couldn’t do much about it so we lived with it.

For two years we lived with it and by now I was seventeen. In those two years certain things came to light concerning Lynda and, it has to be said, just how mad she was. Every morning breakfast would be cooked for the dogs (or her ‘children’ as she referred to them). Eggs and bacon usually, slopped onto the kitchen floor. Whilst working her shifts at the nursing home, Lynda would lock up her dogs for twelve hours in her two up two down terrace. As dogs do they would relieve themselves when and where they felt like it. Lynda would then return home and go ballistic shouting things such as, ‘What have you done you filthy bastards?’ Well, they’d done what dogs do. Lynda’s dogs had also been given disturbingly human names, such as Barney, Philip, Lewis etc. Perhaps the most disturbing fact of all was that none of the bitches in her pack had been spade. So by now she had twenty of these inbred hell hounds running amuck in her stinking hovel of a home. Oh yes, the smell. I haven’t mentioned the smell have I? The thin walls that allowed us to glean all this information also let us know what Lynda’s house must smell like. Less than pleasant as I am sure you can imagine.

Despite the dogs, things were looking up. My mum was going on holiday for two weeks and leaving me to house sit. Imagine my joy, seventeen and a pad of my own for a fortnight. My best mate, James, decided this was too good an opportunity to miss and promptly moved in. We didn’t have parties every night and the music wasn’t on that loud all the time. So I don’t know what it was but Lynda seemed to have taken a certain dislike to us, often beating the walls and shouting nonsense through them, such as, ‘I’ll tell your mother you’re smoking those drugs of ecstasy!’

James and I decided we’d had enough of her and her dogs. So we took action, as any self respecting, mischievous seventeen year olds would. The first stop was the butchers and the second the chemist. Lynda was on day shifts, which was fortunate, and so when she was gone for the day, my friend and I posted five premium scotch beef steaks, laced with laxatives, through her door. Twenty dogs, all with the screaming ad dabs, locked up for twelve hours; imagine the mess.

That night we knew it had had the desired effect. She went mental; absolutely, undeniably crazy. ‘WHAT HAVE YOU DONE? YOU FUCKING BASTARDS! AAAAARGH!’ At which point she broke down. I must say I felt a pang of guilt for a second but then she pulled herself together and seemed to be preparing to clean the place. Only Lynda’s idea of cleaning was as twisted as her idea of ‘children’. From what we could hear it sounded like she was filling a bath. But then the sound of sluicing water told us she had filled a tin bath and just chucked it on the floor. What a way to clean your house.

Despite our previous and momentary guilt, James and I felt our mission had been accomplished. Surely now she would get rid of at least some of the inbred mutts. But one must never assume and we were not dealing with a rational being here. The dogs stayed, and after our little prank, the stench increased exponentially.

When my mum returned from holiday she too must have felt it was time to do something. The environmental health were called in. After a preliminary investigation they decided Lynda’s house was a) the worst case they’d had in a private residence and b) rotting from the inside out. They proposed to gut it and give it a full new interior. Lynda, mentally challenged as she is, had failed to buy any house insurance. As a result, hard earned tax payers’ cash was used in the form of a council grant to give her a brand spanking new house, including double glazing!?. In a few years she’ll probably get another free refurb as she now has twenty five dogs. I realise it’s not the dogs’ fault but still, I can’t help thinking that perhaps my mate and I should have used poison instead of poo powder.

Woo! Yay! Houpla! and indeed Panowie!

Inter 1-5 Arsenal - Mua ha ha haaaaaaaaaargh!

The Scaryduck Archive

Lumberjack

I never wanted to work in this place. I want to be a lumberjack, swinging from tree to tree, wearing womens’ clothing and hanging round in bars.

As of today I am Chief Sub Editor S. Duck, and for the first time in fourteen years I am no longer required to work night shifts. This is A Good Thing. Yet I still scan the job pages for vacancies in the field of transvestite tree surgery. You never know.

Edit: The buggers in my new office all listen to Saga FM, the digital radio station for those awaiting the Grim Reaper. My ears! My ears!

Can I have my old job back?

Mad Norwegian

Apropos of Saturday's gloating egg-chasing related post, I've managed to dig up the original "Can you hear me?" audio clip (Real Audio required), delivered by a now sadly deceased Norwgian TV commentator on his nation's defeat of England in a World Cup football qualifier. Genius.

The Scaryduck Archive

Gloat

Rolf Harris! Crocodile Dundee! Ned Kelly! Clive James - can you hear me? Men at Work! Sir Les Patterson! Can you hear me in your campaigning? Dame Edna Everidge! Your boys took one HELL of a beating!

Letters to the Editor

Sir –

It has come to my attention that the entire plotline for J.K. Rowling’s latest over-priced pot-boiler “Harry Potter and the Banshee’s Floater” is nothing but a cheap rehash of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s classic detective yarn “Sherlock Holmes and the Mystery of the Corn-Laden Turd”.

When will the powers-that-be do something about this trendy left-wing Bolshevik menace and burn Rowling at the stake like the wart-riddled witch that she is?

Children these days should be forced, at gun-point if necessary, to read good, wholesome literature such as “Mein Kampf”, the lingerie pages of the Kay’s catalogue and the collected works of that fine upstanding young author “Lord” Jeffrey Archer.

I am not mad.

Yours etc,

Lt Col Winston St John Cholmondeley-Cholmondeley Patel (Mrs)

The Scaryduck Archive

Eighteen-ish

In your youth, did you ever try to pass yourself off as an adult? Unless you were one of those kids with stubble and/or breasts at the age of nine, you didn’t tend to get away with it, do you? Take my good self by way of example. I was never the biggest of kids, and I could rarely pass myself off as my own age, let alone a tax-paying, voting adult. At the age of twenty-five I was still having to produce my driving licence to get served in pubs, and even then it was to the most dubious of landlords. Whatever made me think, at the age of fifteen, I could ever get away with it? Short answer: stupidity.

So there were were, at Air Cadets camp at RAF Waddington in Lincolnshire. All Vulcan bombers and Wimmin’s Peace Camps (who were roundly abused, but little did I realise that within ten years, I’d be on the same marches as them), but most of all we were away from our parents and under the care of a bunch of uniformed idiots who thought that by shouting at us in very loud voices they had us under control. We spent days marching up and down drill squares, shooting things on the ranges, puking in the swimming pool, visiting other air stations and generally annoying the RAF staff, who referred to us as Space Cadets. Waste-of-Space Cadets.

The problem was that I was small for my age. Gary, Shed and Stu could, in fading light, pass themselves off as eighteen, but you’d need to be Blind Pew’s blinder and deafer brother to believe that I was of age. Then there was Roger Ramjet. Same age as the rest of us, but in a twelve year old’s body, with an eight year old’s brain.

So, what in the name of God possessed us to try to get served in the pub nearest the main gates of the RAF station? We were literally chased back to our barrack by a bunch of squaddies after Roger asked for, and I kid you not, “A cup of beer, please Mister.”

It was also no-go in the station’s Other Ranks bar, after all, everybody and their dog knew we were Spacers, and a trip out to the local off licence was thwarted by a sign of the door reading “Thames Valley Air Cadets: Don’t even think about it”, signed personally by Wing Commander Matthews. The grown-ups had all the bases covered at this particular base. Or so they thought.

On the last day of camp, as was the tradition, we were to be let loose in the nearest town to the station. In the case of RAF Waddington, this was the City of Lincoln, a historic city with a magnificent cathedral dominating the scenery for miles around. One of the camp spunkers, leafing through the pages of a certain magazine in the barrackroom, noted that Lincoln was also home to a Private Sex Shop. We would, it was decided there and then, troop down there and top up on our jazz supplies. So we did, en masse, forty of us. We were met with one word: “Out”. I never even got in through the door.

Obviously, the big mob of kids was rather too prominent for the citizens of Lincoln. There was only one thing for it - split and try out luck in smaller numbers. A few tried pubs, but they all seemed to contain our leaders on the lookout for cadets to put on a charge, and they caught plenty, particularly the ones still wearing their uniforms. One bright spark thought they could get pissed on the Communion wine at the cathedral. Total alcohol content, despite protestations that “I only got a bloody sip”: 0.0000001%

Desperate to get into somewhere underage, we all headed for the cinema, which, as luck would have it, was showing Porky’s, a movie about a bunch of kids trying to get into a bar underage. Standing on tiptoe and affecting our deepest voices “One Please”, we all got in. All except Roger Ramjet, who asked for a kids’ ticket and was shown the door before he could even get his money out of his pocket, his protests that “I’m eighteen, Mister, honest” being met with snorts of laughter from the fat, sweaty doorman. He sat outside for two hours waiting for us.

We got to see Porky’s: The Puritan’s Cut. He was the lucky one.

The Scaryduck Archive

Mrs Duck – The Final Reckoning

…Et Norvege… nul points. And that concludes the voting from the Luxembourg jury.

We humbly invited you, dear reader, with promises of grand prizes and free shit, to make the lovely Mrs Duck laugh. And so she did. From a decent sheath (Huh huh Beavis, he said ‘sheath’ Huh huh huhuh huh…) of entries, we selected two which were deemed smirkworthy enough to pick up the prizes.

First: Oliver Burdekin’s story “The Dog Lady”, a true tale of mirth, woe and poop in the finest tradition. Well done that man.

Second: Jemma Jacob’s tale of teen drunkenness, which admittedly higher on woe than mirth, still caused sniggering above and beyond the call of duty.

With the permission of the authors, I’d like to reproduce these stories here next week.

Highly Recommended: Both Lori Smith (a dramatically posed photo cartoon) and Denis Bostock both spent ages on their entries, but sorry chaps, there can be only one winner. Denis’s story of an Animal Farm style bovine rebellion cannot be passed over without quoting this fine, fine gag:

”Right young man,” said the farmer in his gruff pipe-smoer’s voice, “I’m getting too old to do all the work round here, so I need someone to help me with the slaughtering work. Stunning cows.”
“Yes, they are quite attractive.”

The entry that tickled us the most, however, came from Gowon Sanusi of Lagos, Nigeria, for his stunning interpetation of the work “I AM WRITING IN RESPECT OF GENE BILLINGS, A CUSTOMER OF MY BANK, WHO PERISHED IN A PLANE CRASH ALONG WITH HIS BARREN WIFE…THIRTY MILLION UNITED STATES DOLLARS.” A true work of genius that had us in tears the whole night.

Thank you for your efforts, there’ll be another big-prize competition soon.

The Scaryduck Archive

Letters to the Editor

Sir –

What a load of rubbish these so-called Old Wives’ Tales are. My fellow Rotarians and I appeal to the Home Secretary to do something suitably draconian to wipe out this greatest menace to society since they legalised Larry Grayson without delay. Only recently, an old wife (not mine, I hasten to add) told me, whilst observing a glorious sunset, “Red sky at night, shepherd’s delight.”

Imagine my dismay, on picking up my copy of The Times the next day to read that Arnold Widdershins, a popular sheep-herder and licensed goat-worrier of this parish had been tragically killed in a bizarre spacehopper accident. Hardly cause to be delighted – especially as it pissed with rain for the whole day!

I am not mad.

Yours etc

Lt Col Winston St. John Cholmondeley-Cholmondeley Patel (Mrs)

The Scaryduck Archive

Room 101

An occasional series on things that get right up my arse.

No.4: Other People’s Crap

Beer cans, endless cigarette butts, a Mars a day, “Have a Nice Day” pizza boxes, the face of Colonel Sanders smiling up from the gutter, caring little for the damage that he and his friend the red-haired clown have done. Wherever you go, someone else has been there before you, and has left something poisonous, non-biodegradable or plain old ugly behind them. Is this the world we want to live in?

You drive at night, from the car in front an explosion of sparks sends you into buttock-clenching fright as a cigarette butt flies from the window and hits the road in a cascade of fire. You want to pull them over, you want to throw it back at them with an “Excuse me, I believe you’ve dropped something”, but they’re also built like a brick shithouse, and you’re far, far too English for that kind of thing.

After spending an entire weekend with myneighbours clearing litter and dog shit off the Rodwell Trail (a picturesque former railway line that runs round the edge of Portland Harbour), I was dismayed to see some teenage oaf throwing his chip wraper into the bushes while walking the dog. Despite the fact he looked like he’d just got out of one of Portland’s three prisons, I finally cracked and let the bastard have it with a mouthful of abuse until he was embarrassed enough to bin his rubbish and flee from the mad fat bloke with the comedy dog.

I’ll probably end up stabbed in a gutter somewhere at this rate.

Last week, somebody dumped a sofa on the trail. A sofa! Don’t people set fire to things any more? I did, however, earn myself three pounds fifty by turning it upside-down and getting the loose change out of the bottom. Council? Moi?

Fast food, slow brains, too lazy to care, too selfish to consider it anything but somebody else’s problem. Society is doomed.

Hang on while I finish off these Hula-Hoops. Shite. No bin.

The Scaryduck Archive

Rock!

My kids had seventies rock’n’roll icon Alvin Stardust visit their school this week, lecturing on the influence of "Doo-Wop" music during the Malayan Emergency*. I thought he was dead, but how wrong I was! It appears that following an unfortunate spacehopper accident in 1985, he was revived by the Juju Man of Stockwell in an arcane ceremony involving a short stick, June Whitfield's lingerie drawer and three drops of Ronald McDonald's blood**. Fact fans will be amazed to learn that Alvin Stardust isn’t his real name. He changed it just before he became famous and had his digeridoo turned inside out. Born Ethel Stardust in a convent in what is now Harare, Zimbabwe***. FACT.

Readers will be delighted to know that despite his hideous and terrifying premature burial ordeal, Mr Stardust is now perfectly healthy.

* One of these facts may not, in fact, be true.
** This one probably isn’t either.
*** Err...

The Scaryduck Archive

Brain Dump

Is there no end to this insanity? Now the Rabbit’s gone and got himself a weblog.

Anyone got a Carrot? is a depositary for random bollocks, musings and half-baked ideas, robbed from round the internet and the far reaches of my mind. You know, the kind of crap I vowed would never appear on these pages.

And while I'm here, I'm currently writing a short storyaboutthe music industry. If anybody out there has experience of selling their soul to Satan in the name of Rock'n'Roll and wish to help me with my research, do get in touch. We could go on the Trisha show together.

Make Mrs Duck Laugh

The Make Mrs Duck Laugh competition is now closed. Thank you for the big, fat wedge of entires - a winner will be announced towards the end of this week, providing I survive my meeting with the Cheeky Girls.

Right on Commander!

Kids these days with their Gameboys, Playstations and broadband connected online games - they don’t know they’re born. When I was a lad, apart from having to live in a cardboard box in t’middle of t’motorway, working a twenty-five hour day at t’mill, I had me a BBC Micro. Thirty-two kilobytes. That is all.

Our school had a RS 380-Z, and impressive looking machine that was kept under lock and key by the stern Mr Dupre, who would grudgingly give you the key for the duration of morning break. Seeing as you had to download the Operating System from cassette, you’d just get the thing running in time to switch off again. I took a peek inside once. A fucking huge box, with about three tiny components inside it, which that balding twat was guarding as if his life depended on it. What a swiz.

You can’t get a computer these days with less than a few gigs - can you imagine writing software for 1980s computers with 32K? Or the ZX-81 with its massive 1kB of RAM. The mind boggles.

But people did. Defender - 14kB of shoot-em-up heaven. Frak! Citadel. Repton. I was particularly addicted to a football management game which played out the action in chunky Mode 7 graphics - the type you get on Ceefax - and led to the mighty Arsenal being champions of the world no less than seventeen seasons in a row. Then Ian Bell and David Braben came up with Elite.

Elite was a space war and trading game where you captained a craft scooting around eight massive galaxies, buying and selling commodities and shooting up the baddies. There were whole armadas of different ships, space stations and planets, no end to the add-ons for your craft and every mission was different. With pretty efficient wire graphics and responsive controls the experience was pretty damn realistic to the untrained 1980s eye.

You started off “Harmless” with only a crappy pulse laser to defend yourself, and about ten bob in the bank. From there you’ve got to learn to handle your ship and get to grips with the most difficult part - docking with the space station. Get enough money, however, and you get yourself a docking computer and some meaty weapons, so the universe had better cower before you as you rise to “Mostly Harmless”.

It took me about two years to rise to ELITE status, gaining a “Right on Commander!” every 256 kills, and shifting as many illegal weapons as I could carry. Meanwhile, back in the real world, my O-Level studies went to pot, closely followed by the A-Levels. Damn you Elite! However, I did have the reactions of a fightr pilot, and impressed the RAF recruiting guy with the best pilot’s aptitude test he’d seen that year. With alien space cruisers swimming in front of my eyes, I failed the interview.

I know longer play, but you can actually download an Elite emulator for your PC from several sites. I daren’t - I’d never get anything done. It took me years getting my fingers straight again after they got used to the bizarre key combinations to play the bloody thing and I’m not going through that again. Besides, Simpsons Road Rage on the PS2 - that’s where it’s at. Only another ten thousand dollars, and I unlock Krusty. Hey hey!

The Scaryduck Archive

Golf

I used to be quite the golfer. My grandad, being the life member of a noted course in Northern Ireland, coaxed me into taking up the game, and I took it up with a gusto. I’m still not that bad with my mashie niblick today out on the Weymouth pitch and putt, but back in my teens, it was a bit of a steep learning curve. Large metal clubs? Small round projectile weapons? Entrusted to me by unsuspecting parents? Were they mad? I mean, what possible damage could I do?

I’ll draw a discrete veil over my dad’s greenhouse. It was a one hundred per cent fluky accident. All I was doing was practicing my short game up and down the garden, aiming for the washing line pole. One tremendously skillful shot actually hit the target, but with a little more power than intented. The ricochet resulted in a subsequent loss of pocket money, and a ban on playing round the house. My Uncle Mick (one of those people who cannot drive past a golf course without slowing down to a crawl while saying “Oooh! Golf!”) actually practiced by chipping balls over his house. Woe betide anyone coming up the driveway...

It was decided, therefore, that I should go on a golfing holiday. Not only that, my parents could kill several birds with one stone by sending me over to Ireland to stay with my golf-mad grandparents and have me out of the house for a couple of weeks. They even gave me spending money. Lots of it, and my green fees would be covered for the whole holiday. They even lay on a golfing partner - a local kid about my age named William by his none-more-Orange parents - to play with. I promised to be on my best behaviour. As if I would let them down.

It was ace. I would meet William at nine in the morning, and we would go round the course again and again until it was time to go home in the evening. Sometimes we’d even manage to complete a hole without hacking it to pieces. William even managed a hole-in-one on the short fourth - a fluke of a shot that went in off a tree, but as there was no adult member around to witness it, the feat existed only in our twisted memories. To celebrate, we fished a load of old balls out of the pond and took turns at whacking them off the sixth tee into the sea of Belfast Lough, no more than thirty yards away.

I had recently become a New Romantic, discovering the delights of the mighty Ultravox and Depeche Mode. I hefted my clubs round the course in the full outfit.

“That long black coat of yours,” said Grandad, “Is costing you two shots a hole.”

Yes, but dammit, I was the coollest kid on the course. Not for me the tartan trousers and the pringle jersey! It was black, black, black, but I did spare the old man’s blushes by going light on the make-up.

On July 29th 1981, William and I had the entire course to ourselves as one Charles Windsor tied the knot with a certain Diana Spencer. We went round four times and then hogged the snooker room until we were kicked out at closing time. Ah, the life of the teenage hustler.

But fifteen-year-old William had more than one love. He loved his golf and his snooker, but more than both he loved Mary. Mary was the seventeen-year-old daughter of the club captain, a glorious young lady of those certain proportions that they only make in Ireland, who made William walk like he had two overripe plums dangling between his legs. Which he did. She was a golfing goddess, whose very presence on the course would have William a quivering mess, desperate to impress his true love with his prowess. It would have been easier, in retrospect, jut to ask her out.

With Mary and her old man waiting behind us, William teed up to drive off the first. A bag of nerves, he focused on the ball, Mary’s chest, the ball, Mary’s legs, the ball, his balls and then back on the ball again. With a silent prayer, he let fly with a mighty not-quite-in-the-manual swing and thrashed the ball straight down the middle of the fairway. In his dreams. In fact, the ball flew fifty yards straight up in the air, perched at the top of its arc, and landed three feet away from his feet, taunting him with its “Stolen from Downpatrick Driving Range” label. Clenching and unclenching his fists, a man defeted, he let his true love play through. Whether this was to hide his embarrassment, or just to watch her arse was never made clear, but a bit of both, I should imagine.

We watched them disappear down the first fairway. Her dad hit a sparkling drive, and she followed suit, both finishing off with respectable par fours. I could watch her bending over to pick her ball out of the hole all day, and I did. Then it was our turn. I got there in seven. William, still shitting bricks, finally holed out for twelve after playing bagatelle with a few trees, a rabbit hole and a water hazard that no-one had noticed before. Onwards to the second.

My drive bumped and rattled up the hill, a whole fifty yards, with a huge divot of grass and mud actually managing to go further. With the object of his affection just reaching the green, William managed to keep the ball on the island and hit one right up the middle. We strutted after our balls. Another three scuffed shots and we were within a hundred yards or so from the green. A couple of halfway decent, if rather weedy, hits would see us within chipping distance, so we went for it. William did exactly that, and scooped one into a bunker some twenty yards short.

Then it was my turn. I addressed the ball, swung, and fully expected to top the thing and see it scuttling along the gound, yard by yard, on its merry way to the target. Except I didn’t. I caught it full on the meat of the club, and gave it a full-on thwack that would have had Nick Faldo in orgasms, even before he started messing about with his Fanny.

One thing rapidly became clear - there was no way on God’s Earth that my little white ball of fury was going to stop before it hit the green. This one was going like the clappers - a greenhouse killer, if you like. And right in its path stood Mary and her scary dad, the club captain who drove a huge Volvo and probably ate fifteen-year-old hackers for breakfast, using their smashed golf clubs as a toothpick.

“FORE!” I shouted.

Except it came out “........fore.......”

“FORE” shouted William.

Except it came out “Get out the fuckin’ way!”

They didn’t get out the fuckin’ way, and the ball bounced once and caught Mary’s Dad right in the middle of his back just as he lined up a crucial putt.

The world stood still. Nothing happened. The ball seemed to stick in the middle of his back, like it was glued there. It dropped onto the green with a barely audible thud. Then, like a grand old tree succumbing to the woodman’s axe, Mary’s Dad keeled over forwards onto his face, his putter pinging away, bent double by the impact of body and ground.

Oops.

“FORE!” I shouted, rather too late.

For such a calamatous faux pas, things turned out rather better than expected. Despite our initial plan of running away and joining the Navy, we decided to peel the poor bloke off the second green before he damaged the grass in any way, as fatal injuries notwithstanding, it was very poor form to annoy the greenkeeper. Mary’s Dad was rather forgiving about the whole affair, and left us join him and Mary as a foursome. This was a suggestion that turned poor William’s game from just about passable to the equivalent of a hundred monkeys with a hundred toy golf clubs. Eventually, they’ll come up with a round of golf, but you’ll get a whole lot of shit before you do. All he wanted from life was a twosome behind the gazebo on the fifth.

The only words he ever spoke to her were “Can I polish your ball?” while standing by the washer on the eighth tee. She politely declined, and inside he died. Her ball remained unpolished, and he eventually became a nun, such was the depth of his shame.

On the other hand, she said to me “You’re quite the golfer”, and she was allowed to come round to my grandparents’ house -as the captain’s daughter - for Sunday tea; and I accidentally got to see her arse when the door of the downstairs toilet swung open at an inopportune moment. I gave her my phone number. She never rung.

William hated me.

I told him about her arse.

William hated me and tried to force a pitching wedge down my throat.

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That There London

Today was going to be a Fraser-esque "Bollocks to this, I'm off to London" post, but seeing I'm now back from the Smoke after a series of meetings that never quite happened, it hardly seems worth the while.

So, London, then. Haven't been up there for at least six months now, and the abiding memory is one of being chased out of the place by charity muggers. At least the bloke with the Golf Sale sign is carrying out some useful function for society at large. "Excuse me sir, can I have a few minutes of your time for xxx charity?" Now, I give to charidee as much as the next man (but I don't like to talk about it, mate), but in central London, you can't move for cheerful students in a Save the Children tabbard, clutching a clipboard and tugging at your heartstrings.

The first dozen or so "Excuse me's" I can take with a modicum of civility, but alas, as my headache grew, it was downhill from there.

"No thanks.
"No thanks.
"NO thank you
"NO!"
"NOT interested.
"Look - just fooking fook off!"

I gave at the office.

Still, nice to see The Independent publishing in tabloid form so you can have a half-decent broadsheet read on the train without punching your neighbour in the face.

However, my inner Benny Hill waits, breath baited, for the day The Sun gives up its tabloid format and goes broadsheet. Can you imagine what Page Three would be like? Knickers! Knackers! Knockers!

Nothing quite beats laughing at other people's over-loud mobile phone conversations on the train home. "How long? Who was the judge?" got a most excellent guffaw. I must get up to the capital more often.

Vote!

Friday sees the appearance of a new Scary story. As promised last week, you can choose between Golf (may contain arses), Golf (may contain arses) or Golf (may contain arses). Due to this brazen lack of choice, I will be open to the usual, "fit in a word or phrase" challenge.

Err... comment-o!

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Backski

To the Cenotaph above Fortune’s Well for the annual Remembrance Day service, my first on the Island of Portland. We stood on a windswept clifftop, overlooking Lyme Bay and Chesil Beach, paying our respects to the fallen of both past and current generations. It is a memorial constructed from the local stone – most of which leaves the island by lorry at an alarming rate to build expensive looking offices in London, while other lorries arrive at an equally alarming rate to fill the quarries up with landfill. So that’s Portland, slowly getting hollowed out and filled with shit.

Still, it was a well attended affair, made all the more memorable for Scary duck Jr being photographed by the local rag, and appearing in Monday’s Dorset Echo looking suitably respectful at the cenotaph. Memorable for me too, as it’s the first time I’ve ever seen him quiet and/or away from his PlayStation 2.

But who the bloody hell invited the town crier? Never in my life – and I’ve met more than my fair share of these people – have I met such a bunch of lunatics. I am firmly convinced that the post of town crier is one invented by local councils to keep their most dangerous people in a place where they can keep an eye on them. You cannot have a conversation with a town crier without the words “tradition”, “Brussels Eurocrats”, ”bring back the birch”, “Enoch Powell” and “darkies” coming up at some point, usually at over 110 decibels, and much to your embarrassment.

Most town criers – and I found this out for myself – supply their own robes, bell and extraordinary growth of beard, which just goes to show the extraordinary lengths these people go in order to look ridiculous in public. Even the female ones. It keeps them off the streets I suppose, and I trust that the council does go as far as providing them with sound-proofed housing. For all our sakes.

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Send more money and fish

Guest Blogger: Pengor

Greetings puny humans. The duck can’t be arsed to blog today, so following the recent trend for letting other people write up your site for you, he’s letting me have a go instead. In which case, I hereby claim this domain in the name of the Penguin Liberation Army (Officials) as our first blow for Penguin Emanciop… Emaenciopti.. Omancipatio… Freedom. As leader of the world Penguin movement, it is my duty to inform you of our intentions in the sphere of international politics. To whit:

* Complete penguin liberation by the year 2005.
* Fish, and loads of it
* The setting up of a penguin government to replace the outmoded human dominated United Nations
* A ten minute shopping dash for the lovely Gloria Fishfinger (who I am not going out with)
* Pickled onions
* Somewhere nice and warm to live where you don’t get eaten by walruses an’ stuff. Like Iraq.
* Fish
* Guns
* Guns that fire fish

To this end, I have gained control the entire fish and chip market in your puny United Kingdom while you’ve been sitting there wondering if some jug-eared idiot’s going to be your King or Queen (neither – you will all be our slaves, peeling potatoes and filleting fish for your penguin masters), and have restricted trade to just one shop – Pengor’s Big Fry on the seafront at Weymouth. Come and get it while it’s hot – Cod and Chips only six hundred quid a portion. Soon, the entire country, desperate for a nice saveloy and a pickled egg will be on its knees, and will be forced to pay all their money to the PLA(O). Before long, the entire British money supply will be in my hands. And then – the world, or something.

MUAHAHAHAHAAAAAAAAARGH!!!!

Failing that, see you at our karaoke evening, the Old Castle Inn in Weymouth, Tuesday nights, Fish-in-a-Basket a speciality. My “I Don’t Wanna Dance” has just got to be heard to be believed; and a few choruses of “The Lady in Red” should be enough to destroy any civilisation.

Until the Glorious Day, puny Humans!

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Seeth

Gert at Mad Musings of Me has spent a rather painful night in hospital thanks to some moron from the shallow end of the gene pool throwing fireworks into the pub where she was enjoying a quiet drink.

Now, I've hardly lived a blameless life when it's come to pyrotechnics, but this kind of rampant idiocy really has got me angry. Number one rule of Scary's Blowing Things Up - never involve the general public, not unless you want to see the inside of a Pound-You-In-The-Ass prison. If there's any justice, they'll nail the little scrote who did this and use his brains (what little there are of them) to paint the inside of the Tate Modern and use his guts for a skipping rope at school sports day. That is all.

Get well soon, Gert.

“Scaryduck’s ‘Did You Know...?’ No. 353”

The giant Millennium Wheel in London was built to give the Great British public sedate aerial views of their capital city whilst rotating at a serene two revolutions per hour. However, the first people to ride in the behemoth - a busload of pensioners from a local old people’s home - were involved in a tragic chain of events that led to the near cancellation of the entire project.

The operator, recently recruited from a local funfair, was heard to shout ‘Scream if you want to go faster!’ before cranking the machine up to the maximum 400 revolutions per minute, with the old biddies bouncing around inside like a pair of old boots in a tumble dryer. The survivors were posted home to their nearest and dearest between two sheets of cardboard, while the operator is now in charge of improving services on the London Underground.

The Millennium Wheel opened to the public in February 2000, along with its sister attractions the Jubilee Line Ghost Train, the Big Ben Death Slide and the Buckingham Palace House of Horrors.

Wa-Hey-HEY!

Arsenal 2-1 Tottenham.

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Friday Stuffpile

A quick reminder that the Make Mrs Duck Laugh competition closes in one week. Send anything - your original work only please - that you think will make the lovely Mrs Duck crack a smile to robberrabbit@fastmail.fm, and you could win a spanking new copy of the Viz Profanisaurus, plus one or two bonus prizes that have since fallen into my possession.


Crap Joke

Little Johnny’s late for school again, and sidles into the classroom just before lunch.

“Oh, Johnny!” cries the teacher, “This is the third time this week.”

“Sorry I’m late miss,” he replies, “But my dad got burnt this morning.”

“Oh, not too badly I hope?” asks the teacher, suddenly losing her anger.

“They don’t fuck about at the crematorium, miss.”


Bookage Redux

Your favourite Duck is in print again with the publication of Boxer Shorts Redux - a collection of short stories supporting the bandwidth costs for the extremely funky Wil Wheaton Dot Net. This time around the lovely Thumper has allowed me two pieces; the first being a work of fiction that you will not have seen before, and the second - rounding off the book - comprises three of my favourite Scary Stories, including a reworking of the class “PiSS”.

The book is available HERE, at the cost of USD 13 for American orders, and the equivalent of GBP 11 for orders to the UK & Europe. Or you could just wait for it to turn up on Amazon.


Stats Whore

Within the next few days, my counter - started at the end of September 2002 - will roll over the 200,000 mark. Will it be you? You know you want it. Keep hitting that F5 button and it could well be! Thank you for your support, I shall wear it always.


Can’t you see I’m burning, burning?

I went for a return visit to the doctor’s surgery this week.

“So, Mr Duck,” asked Dr Blunt, “How are you coming along with the medication?”

“Fine, fine, fine,” I replied, trying to look well, but not too well to be denied a repeat prescription.

“Any side effects?”

“Yes. Constant fatigue, short term memory loss and ...err... something else.”

“Snort.”

“Ah yes. Lack of sex drive. The dog’s had it, the little bastard.”


Shandy

And while we’re on the subject of masturbation, here’s a “big up” to His Royal Highness Prince Charles, Prince of Wales and Duke of Cornwall.

“So, ...err... how long have you been playing the oboe then?”

Not that there's any truth in these ludicrous and risible allegations, at all. Whatever they are. We blame Popbitch.

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Up on the Roof

Laura in an unguarded moment

The one thing about living in a block of flats is not having to worry about the roof leaking. Yes, you do have to live with the people upstairs having a pet elephant, and the bloke downstairs having a prediliction for thrashing, noisy sex at three in the morning, but as Paul Weller says, that’s entertainment. So, when we finally moved into a real live house, the first thing that happened was the discovery of the Great Lake of the Back Bedroom. Arses.

Like a complete tit, I had bought one of those lovely looking chalet style houses. You know the type - the ones with the flat roof where the bedrooms stick out for a nice swiss mountainside effect. A flat roof where water settles in great pools, leaking down onto the foolish inhabitants below. And guess who had to go up there and fix it? Double arses. Supersized.

Brother-in-law very kindly lent me his longest, springiest ladder; and terrified, I started my ascent to my doom. I hate heights. I really, truly hate them. It’s not the fact that I’m so far up, after all, I’ve safely stood on top of the Eiffel Tower with no problems; it’s the knowledge that with one slip, I could end up looking like someone from those industrial safety videos they insist on showing at work.

Whimpering, I reached the top, and immediately found the problem. Water had collected on the roof, and instead of flowing off into the guttering, had leaked through some loose flashing around the chimney and into the house. No problem - straight down to B&Q for all the bits, and I was straight up there fixing the roof like an old pro.

Feeling particularly bullet-proof on this glorious summer’s day, I stood up to admire the view across the rooftops and gardens of my new street. And that’s when I saw Laura for the first time. My heart skipped a beat at this vision of womanhood. Gods, she was ugly. And naked. We had moved next door to the Munsters Naturist Colony.

“Hello,” she said, looking up from her book.

“Bwaargh!” I replied, clinging on to the TV ariel for dear life.

“You just moved in then?” she said, scratching the stretch-marks just above her fanny.

“Bwaargh! Yes, last week. Help!”

She then proceeded to engage me in conversation for no less than twenty minutes; me on the roof, shouting replies to the banshee sprawled butt-naked on a sun-bed next door. A perfectly reasonable conversation, held at one hundred decibels, with me trying not to shout out “For God’s sake woman I can see your beave! Put it away in the name of sanity!”

It was at this point that her husband Roger joined her in the garden. Naked as the day he was born, except for a rather ill-fitting hair-piece, and hung like a donkey. If he wasn’t careful, he could have somebody’s eye out.

“Roger,” said Laura, pointing skywards, “This is our new neighbour, Scary.”

“Bwaargh!”

In the time-honoured tradition, I made my excuses and left; choosing to jump thirty feet into a flower bed rather than waste thirty terrifying seconds on the ladder, sustaining only minor injuries When I finally reached safety Mrs Duck was quick to ask me about my first encounter with the people next door. I told her. She was not impressed.

We lived there for seven years, and credit to Laura and Wiggy, they never once mentioned the nudity thing in polite company. I, on the other hand, unable to engage them in conversation without the fear of being bludgeoned to death by a giant toupeed trouser snake, told everybody on the street. They needed to be warned. Ugly people in the corner house.

Flee! Flee for your lives!

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Meat

What is this? National Bash the Bishop Week or something? Having only just got over the sight of Scarydog and his night manipulations, I popped into a newsagents in Caversham on the way to work for a pint of milk. In this darkened corner of Hades, I found the proprietor thumbing through a copy of Big Ones International - the magazine for lovers of inflatable mammary glands - with more than a passing interest. In the finest tradition of the journalist's craft, I made my excuses and left.

Then I went back and paid for the milk.

Nohands

Yesterday, Scaryduckling and I spent some time recreating the infamous Nohands Kitten picture in the comfort of our own home, using only a stuffed fluffy cat, the hall window and a confused Scary Cat. Result: Stupidity.

One Bad Spud

Time to choose tomorrow's Scary story. Golf (may contain traces of arses), Eighteen-ish (teenage drunkeness), Roof (brazen nudity) or any number between one and thirty-two corresponding to an unwritten tale of mirth and woe (which may contain nudity, drunkeness, arses, explosions, or any combination of all four.) Choose-o!

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Things you don’t want to see when you’re cooking dinner

Number 27: Scarydog whacking off in his basket.

The manky little spunker. There I was, turning the sausages over under the grill at teatime last night, when I caught a rhythmic movement of white fur out of the corner of my eye. And there he was, the filthy little puppy, going hammer and tongs with his favourite red blanket, with a look of steely determination on his face, clearly in the vinegar strokes. Put me right off my toad in the hole, I can tell you for naught. Quite literally consigned to the doghouse while I donned my largest gauntlets to clear up the mess with a catering size box of Kleenex.

Paw Shandy. Bad Dog.

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“Horror-Scopes”

NOVEMBER - Welcome to another edition of Doom, Death, Destruction and Horror. And later we’ll be talking to someone who does gardening.

Aries: Acting you your fantasies will certainly attract the attention you want this month. However, your appearance on Crimewatch as the Masked Gimp Bandit won’t be doing you any favours.
Lucky Breakfast TV related website: gm.tv

Taurus: Making fun plans with pals makes you feel as though you're not alone, after all. But you are. Sadly and desperately alone. Just you, a shotgun and the last cartridge in the box. Do us all a favour, why don’tcha?
Lucky cyclist: Pedro Delgado

Gemini: You could be handed duties that will uplift and inspire you, which comes as a relief. Whichever way your boss puts it though, please bear in mind that masturbating goats for financial gain is still illegal.
Lucky sugar substitute: Sweet ‘n’ Low

Cancer: Did you realise that the astrological symbol for cancer looks like two people having a sixty-nine? Not that you’re ever going to be having sexual relations in the near future. If ever. It’s Ebola. Again.
Lucky goth band: Bauhaus

Leo: A persistent memory could cause you to make changes to your personal life. Perhaps you see yourself falling into the same pattern as your parents. Your father did time for dressing up donkeys in womens’ clothing as well, you know.
Lucky Masters of the Universe/Spice Girls Crossover: Skeletor

Virgo: Prove to the world that you're serious about making a dream come true. Meet you outside the White House with fifteen kilos of enriched Plutonium and a Monster Kong Dildo on Monday, then. Bring a bottle.
Lucky hat: Fez

Libra: Now’s the time to approach your boss and demand the raise that you deserve! Carboard City’s great at this time of year, and let’s face it, you deserve a break from flying that desk. Line on the left, one box each.
Lucky top shelf publication: Forty and Naughty

Scorpio: You've no idea what “dogging” is, but you’re the kind of person who’d trying anything once, twice, three times! Try telling that to the judge though. And Mr Big in the showers.
Lucky supermarket: Tesco

Sagittarius: Working in the privacy of your own home allows you to develop and perfect your skills. However, like juggling, masturbation is best not performed in public unless you’re very, very good at it and you have the requisite licences from the council. You’d better get down the Town Hall now and get your application in. Better safe than sorry.
Lucky cow: Catherine Zeta-Jones

Capricorn: Now is the time to lose all that weight you’ve been promising yourself. You’ll be surprised how much a limb weighs, and how quickly you can adjust your life around the ability to hop. And you can steal shoes from the rack outside the shop.
Lucky cow’s father-in-law: Kirk Douglas

Aquarius: The great news is that your boss thinks you’re fantastic. He loves having someone round the place who makes him look (and smell) good. As a matter of fact, all your colleagues refer to you as “Monkey Breath”, even that cute one you’ve been clumsily flirting with for the last three months. You know what to do. In America, it’s termed “Going Postal”, but don’t feel that it’s a bad thing.
Lucky pointless sport: Water Polo

Pisces: At last you’ve found people who think the same way that you do, share your outlook on the world. Just a shame you had to dig up Rod Hull and Benny Hill to do it. Still, while you’re here: Gottle of geer, gottle of geer.
Lucky something: Look, I’ve been sitting up half the night writing this trash. You’re not having a lucky anything this month. Face it, you’re cursed.

If it’s your birthday: Born in November, you are obviously the result of a parental Valentine’s Day bunk-up. How cheap can you get? And I bet he didn’t even bother with chocolates.

Muggery

A quick message for those of you who have purchased Scaryduck mugs. Only two weeks later than promised, I have them in my sweaty little hands. And damn good they are too. Expect yours this week, post strike depending.

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