Perve

The News of the World a couple of weeks ago described stand-in Tottenham manager David Pleat - famous in certain circles for his habit of driving about very slowly, picking up "fallen women" and escorting them to Luton Town Football Club for a solo on the pink oboe in the car park - as "the worst caretaker since Hong Kong Phooey."

The following Sunday's edition, however, contained a letter from The Hong Kong Phooey fan club, who wrote back and said that these allegations were entirely slanderous, as Phooey "worked very hard, commanded the respect of his fellow workers, and unlike Pleat, had a car that never stopped."

And I bet he never had a copy of the Hong Kong Book of Kung Fu. Just a manky old copy of Razzle with the pages stuck together.

And while we're on the subject of football, a moment of respectful silence for West Ham United's season, please.

Shhhhh.... pffffffffffft!.... MWA HA HA HA HAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!

Scaryduck’s ‘Did You Know...?’ No. 326

The winner of the next series of German Big Brother will get one million euros and the Fallen Madonna Wiz Ze Big Boobies*.

*not necessarily true.

DVD Review: "Return of the King"

What a load of shite.

Not a curled lip nor "Uh-huh-huh" to be seen. He hasn't made a decent film since Jailhouse Rock.

Avoid.

Actually, it is rather good, even if you do get the impression that the Hobbits' village is based on Teletubbyland. A suspicion confirmed when the four Hobbits appear in different colour waistcoats in the final reel...

Meanwhile, over on Robber Rabbit, the Kirstie Allsopp letters continue. The filthy moo.

The Scaryduck Archive

That there London

So, I'm back from that there London with tales of mirth and woe.

I'm descended from a long line of chirpy Cockney characters, and a card-carrying member of an organisation that has vowed to set wild tigers on Dick van Dyke should he ever show his face round these parts again. I moved away as a young 'un, and if my current westward drift continues, I should be somewhere off the Scilly Isles by 2010.

Work drew me back to the capital, with its bright lights, maniac drivers and expensive shops. They put us all up in the Hilton Metropole, which despite its impressive name and even more impressive size, is still a concrete hulk stuck between a building site and the A40, packed to the gills with American tourists called Wilbur.

It's a Hilton, so we should have known better than go to the bar, especially after recoiling with fear from the minibar in our rooms: devices packed with electronic sensing equipment that sets off a premium rate phone call to your credit card company as soon as you breath near it. MI5 would have been proud.

"Vodka and coke, please," said one of our party.

"Large one?"

"Yes please."

"Ten pounds fifty, please sir."

The barman was not joking, even after being informed that the Safeways down the road sells bottles of the same brand for eight pounds, and you can stagger up and down the Edgware Road, swigging great gulps of the stuff, pissed as a little beetle for a fraction of the price.

"There's free nuts," he countered.

"Whoop."

The football was on, so we went down the pub.

Actually, we went to several pubs, our party shrinking in size with each stop, until there was just me downing a coffee in some Lebanese cafe as the European Cup Final rolled to its inevitable one-sided conclusion.

There was a blue flashing light.

And another, and another, and loads and loads of sirens. Half of the Metropolitan Police seemed to be converging on our little cafe. My mind raced. It was that packet of rub-down lettering I liberated from WHSmiths in 1984, or that business with all those bombs an' stuff. Bombs. Lebanese restaurant. It was the Hezbollah connection, naturally. Rumbled at last, and a spell with Abu Hamza in a pound-you-in-the-ass prison beckoned. Woe.

Dozens of Old Bill milled about in the streets for a minute or so, before the biggest copper came and kicked down the door - of the building opposite.

There were screams, shouts and the sound of a brief, one-sided struggle. We ran out into the street to enjoy the free show. This is London, after all, and anything like this is regarded as street theatre, where the most junior cop is expected to pass his helmet around at the end. In the spirit of truthful, unbiased journalism, it was also my duty to watch every last moment.

It was a bust. But no ordinary raid - the Old Bill had charged mob-handed into the local knocking shop, and the shouts and screams were of punters and fallen women caught on the job by some huge bruiser in body armour wielding a huge truncheon. I dare say there were one or two who thought it was part of the service.

Half naked young ladies and punters milled about in the street, as it became clear that this was a trawl for illegal immigrants. An old bloke wearing half a business suit was doing his best to disappear from view, his briefcase hiding his modesty; while some Geordie lad wearing nothing but an England shirt stood there proudly, his old man peeking out under the hem, clearly hoping this was a temporary interruption, and he would soon be back to the matters in hand. With a hefty cash discount.

"I'm am Poleeesh!" screamed one of the girls. "I am from Poland!" And indeed this turned out to be the case as she was allowed to go back in in her scanties to retrieve her passport, and prove that she was, indeed a citizen of the European Union, providing therapeutic massage services to discerning customers, who'd seen her number in a phone box down by Marble Arch.

As it turned out, every single one of the VAT-registered employees of the establishment was able to prove that the recent expansion of the European Union was providing them with the entrepreneurial opportunity of providing high-quality executive services to manky old spunkers elsewhere in the Union; and short of an accountant combing through the books, there was nothing the Old Bill could do.

The madam and the top cop stood to one side, watching disinterestedly, having undoubtedly seen it all before; while an appointment was made for an encounter with the flying helmet and the egg-whisk. Tuesday, 11pm, just after the Lodge meeting.

Sheepishly, the Police climbed back into their vans, empty-handed except for an invoice for a new door and the deep-cleaning of a spoiled shag-pile. We gave them a round of applause and a hearty cheer, which, in turn earned us a shout of "Fuck orrrf !" from the upholders of the law. Charming.

Geordie Lad bid us all a fond adieu, and tweaking his bell-end to make sure it was still fully functional, headed back into Gomorrah, hoping, I dare say, for a two-for-the-price-of-one special offer.

I went back and finished my coffee, met Danny Baker and Alan Yentob and made a TV programme about ordering wild tigers over the internet. London - 100% fan-bloody-tastic.

The Scaryduck Archive

H-Space for beginners

I have stayed in hotel rooms all over the world. USA. France. The Congo. Nigeria. Japan. Cyprus. The Middle East. And they're all the same. Every last one of them. Even the room I'm staying in at the London Hilton Metropole (four stars) is cut from exactly the same template as the Warrington Travelodge (no stars, and proud of it).

That is because, you'll be surprised to know, they are all the same room. Check into a hotel and you are stepping into H-Space, where the usual rules of time and space do not apply and a can of coke costs two quid fifty from the minibar.

Thanks to marvellous dimension-vectoring techniques developed by Stephen Hawking and Kirstie Allsopp, the universe now contains a single hotel room, located just outside Chelmsford, stretching away to infinity, but accessable from any H-Space portal. It also saves a fortune on the cleaning bills, the rest being merely window dressing.

You can steal soap, towels and dressing gowns as often as you like. But thanks to Relative Temporal Re-Mapping, it's all the same towel. Just don't try to bring the two together in the same/time space location outside of a specially prepared airing cupboard. It'll be bad. And end-of-days, cats and dogs sleeping together kind of way.

Think about it - why do you think the TV reception is always so bad, who are those lab-caoted gentlemen you keep meeting in the lift, and why do you always get a view of a concrete wall?

Just imagine, though - you've been in the same room that Paris Hilton shot her infamous scud video - quite possibly on the same night, except you missed it. And you've been in the same suite that John and Yoko did their bed-in for peace. You manky git.

So, next time the maid bursts in while you're mincing up and down in ladies' underwear, she is Mrs Vera Flange from a small town in Essex, and she's got a doctorate in Astro-Physics. She's folding the end of the toilet paper into a point for a damn good reason you know.

The Scaryduck Archive

Bill Hicks Lives!

My hotel room last night had no Bible. I rang the recption desk and complained.

"We'll send one right up," they said.

And I waited, with my biggest net.

Anyone want a Gideon?

The Scaryduck Archive

Subversion

Today I am going on a course. For three days. I fear that it may turn out to be one of these wanky "Find your true inner self" things, in which I may be forced to be nice to people. There are already rumours of group hugs, slogans, primal screaming and wanton use of flip charts, just before the Two Minutes' Hate.

I shall be ready for them.

"Tell us something that's important in your life."
"Transvestisism. Manhole covers."

"Who are your heroes?"
"Daniel O'Donnell, Atilla the Hun, St Winifrid's School Choir."

"What's your customer-care philosophy?"
"I'm a strong believer in a customer-orientated, outward-facing confrontationalist theory, inspired by Joe Dolce's 'Shaddap you Face'."

"Group Hug?"
"Touch me and I'll rip your arms off."

"How about a Primal Scream then? Go on - let all that anger out."
*sighs* "OK then, if you insist" *deep, deep breath* "You're all a bunch of FUCKING CUNTS!"

Anyone got a job going? Will swear for money.

The Scaryduck Archive

Events for your diary

Last year's KMJitB Day was a roaring success

Today: International Kick Mick Jagger in the Bollocks Day. If you see the rubber-lipped Rolling Stones frontman today, it is your duty to kick him in the nadgers. Steel-capped boots and burly henchmen to hold his arms will be available on request. Tuesday: Bring your Otter to Work Day. After last year's triumph, you are cordially invited to bring your otters, voles, badgers and weasels for a day's work experience. Please, no ferrets - they only spend the day mucking about on the photocopier. And to avoid any confusion, Bring Your Tiger to Work Day is NEXT Tuesday.

Wednesday: Saint J Edgar Hoover Day. The faithful celebrate the memory of the patron saint of cross-dressing - and the miracle of the panty-girdle of Antioch - by hanging around the lingerie department in Marks and Spencers. Prince Charles will attend a service at the Bromley branch of Ann Summers.

Thursday: Special Extreme Sports World Championships - Final Day. Stephen Hawking and Christopher Reeve go head-to-head in the climax of the street luge tournament. Golden Hill, Shaftesbury - indoors if wet.

Friday: Armageddon. The end of the world as we know it. Four horsemen. The whore of Babylon. Fire and brimstone, much wailing and gnashing of teeth. The rapture. Doom, death, destruction, horror and Kylie Minogue's birthday. Last day of the Chelsea Flower Show.

Saturday: Jennifer Lopez Engagement Party. Another packed house expected for this popular weekly event, sponsored by Elizabeth Duke of Argos - the pikey's choice. Followed by dinner, dancing and the The-Whole-Thing's-Off Announcement just before midnight. No paparazzi. Bring bottle and bird.

Sunday: World Sardines Championships. Once again, the Vatican welcomes the world for this important televised sporting event. Can America's Ron Jeremy repeat his triumph of 2003, with his stunning record of twenty-seven nuns in the vestry of the Sistine Chapel? Or can British hopeful Cardinal Cormac Murphy-O'Connor upset the odds with his team of highly trained choirboys? Full coverage on Sky Sports One throughout this action-packed day.

Instant Karma

OK boss, if you're reading this, I confess. I sneaked out of work forty-five minutes early last week, and I paid the price.

Just as I got one hundred yards down the road to the station, the skies turned as night, the heavens opened and a downpour of biblical proportions unleashed itself directly unto the head of the sinner. As my train arrived, the monsoon abrputly stopped, the sun came out, leaving me gently steaming on platform five at Reading.

I was able to wring several pints of water out of my t-shirt alone, and emptying my boots caused a minor tidal wave. If there was a plus side to this little episode, despite the train being packed no-one would sit next to a drowned rat.

Karma had just bitten me on the arse. That'll learn me.

The Scaryduck Archive

Down wiv skool!

Extract from Scaryduck Junior's school report:

"My literacy target for this year: Write stories not featuring penguins or fish."

Feh, I say. Feh. What do they know? Did Jeffrey Archer die in vain?*

*No, but give me a couple of weeks.

Snot funny

BWA HA HA HA HA HA HAAAAAAAAAAARGH!!! That is all.

The Scaryduck Archive

Buzzzzzz

From "Readers' Top Tips" column, Woman's Own, January 1964:

"Girls - a smarties tube filled with wasps makes for a cheap, effective vibrator. Do ensure, however, that the cap is securely fixed on with tape."

I once worked with a young lady who was the daughter of a vicar. Let's call her Liz, because that's her name. She was brought up in the traditional way - church on a Sunday, rather posh girls' school, no pubs, no boozing and definately no hanging around with boys. She thought the word "bloody" was about as foul as you can get, and told me so in her firmest Christian tones. She daren't look down in case she noticed she had genitals.

We had to go through two years of her painful courtship of "My Dave" from engagement, the never-ending "I'm getting married, you know" bit to the hell of the wedding itself. Then they moved in together, and they got a top of the range washing machine as a wedding pressent. How sweet. I bet he was in for a surprise.

Liz, you see, was addicted to laundry. She loved doing the washing. She always, always wore freshly laundered clothing, and went as far as taking in washing from family, friends and little old ladies living down the road. Bless. A wonderful, caring attitude you can only come to expect from someone brought up to care by thoughful, right-thinking parents. So you'd think.

Plied with half a shandy, we got the truth out of her. She had a job in an American summer camp. One afternoon, whilst spin-drying the sheets, she leaned foreward and accidentally nudged the washing machine with her ...um... front bottom. It set off fireworks that she never knew existed, and spent all of July and most of August sitting on Hotpoint's finest with a dreamy smile on her face.

On her return to Britain, she accidentally found she could get the same buzz from a Honeywell DPS-8 disc drive, which resembled washing machines in every way except they contained about ten kilos of rapidly rotating ceramics. The old style industrial-sized dot-matrix printers weren't half bad either, and a sixth-form work experience trip to a rather dull computer room ended up as a job in the dark arts of IT.

Still, the job interview must have been interesting: "So Liz, what draws a young lady such as you to the world of computing?"

"It's the technology..." She left to pursue a career in reproducing the effects of earthquakes in laboratory conditions.

It's always the quiet ones...

The Scaryduck Archive

Thursday, already

Firstly, just let me say Happy Birthday to "Your Brother" a mysterious visitor who leaves comments on this site on an irregular basis. He is, as you might suspect, my considerably more cosmopolitan, richer, younger brother, serial divorcee and official Butt Of All Jokes. He lives in Essex. Humour him.

Five stories to choose from this week:

* Father Abraham - special bus woe
* Barmy ‘Army - strange teacher woe
* Trench Warfare - Somme woe
* Buzzzzzz - Masturbatory woe
* Osama and I - Al-Qaeda woe

Don't just do something - sit there!

Meanwhile, Robber Rabbit's in a bit of trouble with the law.

Attack of the Stupids

Allow me to relate an incident on a recent train journey between Winchester and Weymouth.

Train Announcement (every five minutes after we left Southampton): "Passangers in the rear five coaches of this ten car train wishing to alight at New Milton should please move to the front portion of the train. This is because of the short platform at the station."

Got that? Good. Not wishing to alight at New Milton, I am in car six, so arriving there I am not getting all stupid and confused at not seeing the platform out of my window. I am calm. I've listened to the announcements.

Not so the confused and sweary gentleman sitting behind me. The train moves off, and he's just missed New Milton (an incredibly dull suburb of Bournemouth, where people go to die).

Git: "How do I get off this fucking train? I've got people waiting for me!"
Me: "You don't. Travel on to Bournemouth and take the next one back."
Git (getting more and more agitated): "But I've got people waiting for me here! I can't do that!

He reaches for the emergency stop handle.

Me (rather more menacing than I'm used to, but the train is already thirty minutes late as it is): "DON'T. The guard won't let you off anyway."
Git: "But I'm being met HERE! Get me off this fucking train!"

The mix of pleading and extreme profanity is almost comical. He is, in fact, Victor Meldrew. He made a final dive for the emergency handle, just as the train picks up speed and clears the station.

Me: "Make another move toward that handle and I rip both your arms off."

And I wasn't even drunk or anything, despite being breathed on my an intoxicated Scotsman for most of the journey.

He pulled the handle.

Me: "You... you... you... CUNT!"

There's not telling some people, is there? He was led away to a volley of abuse from my fellow passengers, and the guard didn't let him off until Bournemouth. He was met by people in Police uniform, making my train home the best part of an hour late. How we laughed.

The Scaryduck Archive

The Grumpy Old Git Strikes Again

1: Textophobe

I tried to send my first text message the other day. I failed miserably. Holding the phone in the approved manner, and prodding away at the keypad, I achieved the following:

"CR47AL 33HHLX11 9Q PPPPPPPO"

...which apparantly translates as an invitation to partake in a game of scrabble at a well-known dogging rendezvous.

It's no good, I just can't text and I have neither the patience nor the willingness to learn this otherwise simple skill. I gather that it involves parts of my brain reserved for other, far more important functions, such as breathing, hating people in Burberry baseball caps and thinking up new, exciting ways to be offensive.

Utterly defeated by the technology, I instead rang my wife and told her I'd be home in ten minutes, and no - triple word score or not - she can damn well put the scrabble away.

2: Shakespeare was a bastard

God I hate bad poetry. Or specifically truly bad language-mangling doggerel written by old ladies that appears on the letters pages of local newspapers. The English language is ripped apart in the eternal quest for a rhyme in a for verse tirade against dog shit outside the post office.

"Oh dear, there's a terrible terrible mess
As I went to get my pension in my favourite dress
I ask everyone in our town, what can we all do
When the pavement's covered in horrible smelly poo."

And so on, for fifteen verses, featuring a doomed attempt to fit in "I fought in three world wars for people like you." Naturally, this always scoops the ten quid prize for "Letter of the Week", which will only serve to encourage the old bat and inspire other nutcases to do the same.

Stop it. Now. This is the country that gave us Wordsworth, Shakespeare, Ryk the People's Poet and ...err... Andrew Motion, who should have known better to inspire the untalented to set their most trivial thoughts down in rhyme.

And while we're here, let us not forget Bad Poetry's cousin, The Local TV Rap...

"Schoolchildren in Plymouth were so upset about dog mess outside the post office they wrote a rap about it. Dan Prick reports."

And it's a bunch of terribly middle-class thirteen year olds with a pair of bongos and a recorder trying desperately not to swear.

"Yo! It's a terrbile, terrible ting
All this poo outside the post office an' ting
Break it down Sophie!"

I ought to get out more, but there's shit all over the pavement.

The Scaryduck Archive

Practical jokes revisited

Some time ago, I made a call for your best tried-and-tested practical jokes. All I can say from the response I got is this: "You're a bunch of sick, sick puppies." It says something about my readership that most of them involve toilets in some way or other.

* Test a pub or bar for its pikey factor by putting 50p in a urinal and see how long it stays there. Then repeat with smaller denominations before switching to foreign currency. Record so far: 2p.

* Put a sachet of brown sauce under the toilet seat for that mystery "just shat youself" explosion. HP (short for Harry Prickers - 100% FACT!) works best, apparantly.

* Pour a liberal quantity of bubble bath or shampoo in the toilet cistern for a terrifying foamy explosion of mirth and woe. But why stop at that? If your town or city has an ounce of civic pride, there's got to be a fountain somewhere. Use this knowledge wisely, padowan learner. And take a camera.

* Sew a shop's security tag inside someone's coat. Every time they walk into Smiths, HMV or Waterstones they set off the alarm. Hours of endless fun.

* Tried and tested by your humble scribe: Put a sign on a pay machine in a public car park saying "Out of Order, please use other machine". The other machine is 200 yards away and also has a sign saying saying "Out of Order, please use other machine." Works best on pension day or outside a popular tourist attraction. A similar gag also works well with train toilets - with any luck you can get people walking all the way to their destination.

* Fake your death, then disappear for a year. Then next April Fool's Day scare your friends by hiding in their bathroom.

* From Zed's comments via Haddocktwat: Go into MS Word or similar program on co-worker's computer, and configure the AutoCorrect option to replace the word "the" with "the Director is a useless fuckface", or some other interesting turn of phrase. They will usually panic and start scanning for viruses.

* Alternatively, if your colleague leaves their computer, take a screen dump of their current work and set it as their wallpaper. Pick the right person and you can make this one last for several days. "Hello? Helpdesk? It's done it again...."

The Scaryduck Archive

Oh, the agogony

If there is one certainty in life, it is that you're getting old. It is, by and large, a gradual process that goes unnoticed right up until the moment age comes up an kicks you round the face.

For me, this came yesterday evening following an enjoyable barbecue at the house of a friend. Walking home, Scaryduck Jr - who had spent the entire afternoon running about playing football - said that he was tired out, and "can I ride on your shoulders, Dad?"

Why yes, son, you may.

So I lifted him up. He is, unfortunately, no longer the cute, fluffy little toddler he once was, but a rather strapping eight-year-old. How those years fly by.

TW-W-W-W-A-A-A-A-N-N-N-GGGGG!

That noise, dear reader, was the elastic band that holds my head on snapping. I am, as they say, a raspberry ripple, up to my eyeballs on druqks, and have spent the last day manually operating my neck so my head doesn't flop about like a cheap Japanese action figure. I cannot look left or right without twisting - rather painfully - my entire body. I cannot drive, and my world record keepy-uppy attempt will, alas, have to be put off for another day.

And, come to think of it, I am unable to spend the day laying a new patio. Sorted.

The Scaryduck Archive

Dahn the social

Last night I joined my local social club. It's got everything you'd expect from one of these fine establishments: an over-officious door policy; impressively tattooed female clientele with Burberry accessories; grown men in non-branded England shirts who'd rip out your intestines given half the chance; a giant screen permanently tuned to The Speedway Channel; pointless notices on the walls "Basket Meals!"; and - here's the clincher - Eldridge Pope Royal Oak for a quid a pint.

Oh. My. Bloody. Head.

I'm going back next week to kick the crap out of anyone who stares at my princess in a funny way. Leave it!

The Scaryduck Archive

Spray that again?

In the words of the late, great Sir Peter Ustinov, "A funny thing happened on my way here tonight."

So there I was, on my way home from work, changing trains at Winchester for the direct service to Weymouth. The train is the commuter service from Waterloo, and as such, packed with suits escaping their city jobs for something semi-detatched in Hampshire.

I found a seat in the second carriage, elbowed in with some bloke with a laptop and a couple of chaps leafing through the Evening Standard. A few seats away, and causing a bit of a scene was a twenty-something in a flashy suit, rather the worse for wear after a liquid lunch, which looked like it had lasted most of the afternoon. Even with the train standing at the station, he was swaying, and calling a repulsed middle-aged woman "me best mate, hic." Fair play to him - he was gamefully trying to make it home in a state most boozers would have passed out or fallen under a bus.

As the train pulled out of Winchester, he staggered to his feet and zig-zagged down the carriage to the toilet. Unfortunately, it was engaged, the "Toilet Engaged" light making this fact perfectly clear to anyone who hadn't been on the piss most of the day. It was only when he rattled on the door a couple of times that he realised the worst; and it was at this point we horrified passengers realised the reason for his toilet dash.

He needed to puke. Quite urgently.

A sane, rational, dare I say sober, person might have bowked out of a window or into a rubbish bin. However, our hero was obviously none of these and instead made a dash for the toilet at the other end of the carriage. And he might have made it too, if it wasn't for the little old lady blocking the gangway, trying to get her case onto the luggage rack.

Newton's First Law of Chunder clearly states: "You Can't Hold Back Puke" but our hero tried his hardest, clamping his hand over his mouth. Newton's Second Law goes on to say "Great calamity befalls the person who tries to disprove the first law." You see, trying to hold back twelve pints of premium lager and assorted bar snacks is much the same as squeezing the end of a hosepipe with the tap turned on full.

I can only thank whoever's in charge of these things upstairs that he had managed to stagger past me before he went off. Rich brown vomit was bowked over a wide area - passengers, hideously expensive buffet snacks, up windows, and over some flash bastard pretending to work on his laptop.

Hell broke loose, as puke rained down over people who'd paid their season tickets not to have this kind of thing happen to them. On the contrary, there are specialist clubs up in the Smoke that cater for customers of that particular bent.

As the screaming subsided, the train pulled into Southampton Airport station.

"Errr... sorry," the Puke Bandit slurred, suddenly regaining his senses in the way that only a good hurl manages.

Laptop Man wasn't in the mood for apologies, and there was a second where it appeared blood would be spilled as he stood up, to face his tormentor, his face spattered with brown goo.

Our hero took his chance and legged it, grabbing his coat and case and jumping train miles from home. He left his umbrella behind, which was a nice thought, if a little late. It is amazing, though, that even covered in vomit, only one person dared to complain; while others sat, reeking of chunder for nearly two hours as the train reached its destination.

The guard bumped me up to first class. Result.

The Scaryduck Archive

Letter to the Guardian

The Grauniard's "Fiver" column has recently been discussing bad museum visits, and the subject of the disturbing proximity of Dorset's Tank Musuem and Monkey Sanctuary came up. I've been to both, so I had to throw in my entirely barking opinion. The published it too, the fools.

Dear The Boss

I can quite understand the confusion heaped upon visitors to Dorset by the close proximity of Monkey World and the Tank Museum, being a resident there myself. That's Dorset, and not Monkey World, by the way.

Such has been the expansion of Monkey World over recent years, that the two attractions are now mere yards apart, and it is hardly surprising that there appears to be some sort of inmate exchange programme happening between the two. Additionally, there are also no less than a dozen servicable nuclear reactors less than a mile away at Winfrith, leading me to believe that should the worst happen, we only have ourselves to blame.

In fact, visit the area on a Friday night, and you will see any number of apes from the joint army barracks/monkey sanctuary wearing burberry accessories over lightly-shaved body hair as they head off for a night of drinking and casual violence in Weymouth, or, if they really want to slum it, Poole. Then they let these people drive tanks and shoot huge guns, with firey armageddon literally around the corner.

It is, I fear, only a matter of time before our Simian friends get their hairy little hands on a bunch of Panzers and T-38s, and Charlton Heston will be crawling up a beach screaming "Damn you all to hell!"

I am not mad.

Yours

Alistair Coleman, cowering in a lead-lined shed somewhere in Dorset.

The Thursday vote-o

Seeing as I simply can't be arsed, there is no Thursday vote-o. Instead, see if you can guess the subject matter of tomorrow's Scary story.

The Scaryduck Archive

There can be only one

The polls have closed and the votes have been counted, and at last we can announce the winner of the Scaryduck Movie Quotes Poll, the authoritative better-than-all-these-shite-ones-organised-by-national-newspapers vote on the issues that really matter. No chick-flicks. No poncy art-house. We are only concerned with the one, true medium of cinematic genius: drunken bloke.

So, it hardly comes as a great surprise to find that the greatest movie line of all time came from the lips of a dragged-up Terry Jones in The Life of Brian, with his Shakespearean utterance on the futility of life and the fragility of the human condition. Or maybe he was just playing for laughs:

"He's not a messiah. He's a very naughty boy!"

In second place comes Richard E Grant's "We want the finest wines available to humanity, we want them here and we want them now!" from Withnail and I; while third came Belushi and Aykroyd's "It's 106 miles to Chicago, we've got a full tank of gas, half a pack of cigarettes, it's dark and we're wearing sunglasses. "Hit it." from The Blues Brothers.

All these movies are jam-packed with memorable quotes, so I get the impression you lot were voting for the films rather than the quotes themselves. At least Pretty Woman didn't win. There may have been deaths.

Another, rather more inspired, vote soon. When I get my act together.

Gratuitous swearing department - annual report

Oh, for the love of Leslie Ash's fish-lips, they've gone and appointed a Football Chants Laureate, some so-called football fan who is in charge of researching and writing new football chants. The world's worst poet, Andrew Motion, was one of the judges, and gave this idiot ten grand to go and get on with it.

The Chants Laureate, as Sweary Lyle puts it, is a fucking stupid idea, and for one very good reason. He's not allowed to swear or be offensive to other teams. Now pardon me, but the entire point of chanting at football matches is to swear and be as offensive as possible, and the entire chants laureate idea reflects some sort of fictional vision of 1950s schoolboys with duffel coats and a rattle, which is, of course, complete bollocks. We would have kicked their heads in for a start.

Football chants are, by their own nature, spontaneous, and the thought of some clever dick sitting at home writing down non-offensive rhymes to DJ Otzi's "Hey Baby" almost makes me glad that the guy's had to grow up with the trauma of supporting Birmingham City.

Where would modern football be without this little number, for example?

My old man said be a Tottenham fan
I said fuck off, bollocks, you're a cunt (you're a cunt)"

...described by scholars and social commentators alike as "a tough, uncompromising view of hierarchical conflict in a disjointed familial environment where the younger generation rejects the taken-for-granted standards of the paternalist power structure. However, one cannot discount the realist argument that the father may actually be a cunt."

So much for Freud.

"The wankers Tottenham Hotspur went to Rome to see the Pope
The wankers Tottenham Hotspur went to Rome to see the Pope
The wankers Tottenham Hotspur went to Rome to see the Pope
And this is what he said: FUCK OFF!"

"A challenge to the world view of Papal infallibility and the inclusive nature of the Catholic Church in the face of pre-conceived ideas regarding masturbation, within the social confines of a third-rate football club managed by a kerb-crawler."

The day the so-called Chants Laureate comes up with something to rival this is the day I buy a season ticket for the Spurs, of which there are a plentiful supply.

Any official attempt to raise a happy-jolly atmosphere in football grounds is doomed to failure. Even Arsenal this season held a fans' day in which a specially-selected forum (a bunch of wazzers from Islington called Tarquin), came up with "The Arsenal Ditty". This was printed onto red A4 paper and left every seat in the ground at great expense. 38,000 paper airplanes later, and frenzied public address appeals to "Stop it before somebody loses an eye" the idea was quietly dumped.

I bet he can't even do the "You're shit - Aaaaaaargh!" thing right.

The Scaryduck Archive

100 per cent SCIENCE!

Time travel is a great concept, and I would quite naturally be the first to use it for my own evil ends, such as having a go on famous historical totty, convincing Napoleon that "Moscow's great this time of year", telling Leonardo "what that picture really needs is a huge cheese-eating grin", and of course, borrowing a copy of the 2025 Sports Almanac from my incredibly rich future self.

Shame then, that it's never going to happen. If it were possible, where are all the future types using the technology for their own evil ends, having a go on Liz Hurley, clutching suspiciously accurate pools coupons? Where are the mad scientists travelling back in time so they can be the first to invent the flux capacitor - the key to time travel as ane fule kno; and the power-crazed loonies arming Joan of Arc with battlefield nukes? Still stuck in the future, that's where.

This is mainly becuase that if time travel was feasible, which it isn't, there's one huge bugger holding them back. Everything moves. Travel back a couple of days with the lottery numbers and you'll see what I mean, or rather, you won't. On account of you being dead and all that.

You see, the planet moves. The solar system moves. As does the galaxy we live in. And for all we know, the universe is bouncing around creation jostling for space in a sea of the buggers. Now, you try buzzing about in a converted De Lorean or a clapped out phone box and try to arrive in the same place you departed. Chances are you'll be chewing vacuum or battling with pink robots from the Planet Koozbain. You'd be a fool to try it, and if you ask me, your money would be far better spent doing something useful to the future of humanity, such as pushing back the boundaries of pornography.

Noth that I'm trying to put you off in a piss-poor attempt to corner the market in temporal totty-humping or anything. But send me a tenner and I'll send you the winner of next Tuesday's 3.30 at Kempton Park. Honest.

Vote-o!

Still time to vote in the Scaryduck Movie Quotes Poll, which closes tonight.

"How much for the whole country?"

America is now fully corporatised. That anyone can become president is a myth - you've got to be seriously rich even to consider running for office, and elevation to the number one job requires more corporate backing than a Formula One racing team. With the same ethics too.

Naturally, Britain follows everything the Americans do with some gusto, and the corporate agenda has been creeping in for some years now. What were the miners' strike and the denationalising of the railways if not Thatcherite pandering to the oil, transport and banking industries?

Now, under a Labour government the transition is complete. The Prime Minister no longer holds legitimate power now that he has caved in to one man. Not some Eurocrat as The Sun and The Times would have us believe, but their owner, Rupert Murdoch.

Blair's caving in to Murdoch over the EU referendum effectively ends rule from Westminster, for his government at least, handing power over to Wapping. With Blair's popularity on a knife-edge with an election less than two years away, Murdoch finds himself kingmaker, and can effectively demand or veto legislation with threats to withdraw The Sun's support of the party.

"It's The Sun what won it", crowed the paper in 1993, and there's no doubt that Murdoch's patronage was instrumental in 1997 and 2001. And he certainly has Labour by the balls next time around.

Welcome to the 53rd State.

Scaryduck’s ‘Did You Know...?’ No. 330

Britain's most popular brand of washing-up bowls, brushes and kitchen bins go under the name 'Addis' because they are made in Addis Ababa, and form Ethiopia's main export. The recent conflict with Eritrea almost brought the Ethiopian kitchen supplies industry to its knees, leaving the door-to-door Kleen-Eze corporation - a wholly-owned subsidiary of the Sudanese Ministry of Works - with a virtual monopoly.

No wonder the world's in such a mess.

The Scaryduck Archive

A tribute to Bobby Chariot 1952 - 2004

Bobby Chariot

Tributes are pouring in for the Scouse comedian Bobby Chariot, who died today on stage at the Wakefield Working Men's club. Widely regarded as the worst and least versatile performer on the circuit, and warm-up man to people far funnier than himself, his catchprases "Laugh then, youse bastards" and "I'm on pills for me nerves, y'know" are much loved and repeated by absolutely nobody.

"About as funny as skinning your pet dog," said fellow comic Bernard Manning on the promise of free column inches; while troubled funnyman Michael Barrymore remembered his "dated, hackneyed act filled with gags that even I wouldn't touch with a shitty stick."

Paying moving tribute, Hitler's favourite comic, Jim Davidson said, "This is a tragic, tragic loss to the profession. Chariot was the one man on this Earth who made me look funny."

Chariot's agent, Ralph "Mr Spangles" Catflap tells this publication that Chariot will be dying again at Batley Women's Institute tomorrow and Workington Railway Workers' Club on Tuesday. Tickets available at all prices.

Barking Steve

I have vowed never to write a story about Barking Steve, because I still see him every now and then, and still possess an entrely justified fear of having my arms and legs ripped off, even after all these years. Since I moved house a couple of years ago, the trail's now gone cold enough to stop hiding under a rock and come clean.

However, such has been the clamour from friends and colleagues for me to tell this sorry story of civil service ineptitude, that I have been forced to cave in and heavily disguise one of the central characters who will get the Belarusian mafia to rip my bollocks off and feed them to me with red cabbage if she ever finds out.

Barking Steve isn't from Barking, the lovely, scenic hovel in the east of London. He is so named because he was- and as far as I know, still is barking mad. I presume the civil service only employed him out of desperation or through some kind of collective hallucination in the interview process. Barking Steve, you see, had issues. With just about everyone he came into contact with. Not just mad - barking mad; and they put him in my office because he knew how to work a photocopier. Smashing.

The first time I realised that he was slightly different from the rest of my colleagues was, let me see now, on his first morning in the job.

"See her?" he said, pointing to one of the senior managers, "I'd like to give her one up the arse."

"Oh, right," I replied, rather taken aback.

"I can put in a word for you, if you like."

Then he came up with (after spending the morning drawing all over the boss's Daily Telegraph with a marker pen): "Do you know what I'd do for a laugh?"

"What?"

"Dip an old lady's glasses in sulphuric acid, so she thinks she's got cataracts."

"Riiiight..."

"See this shirt?" he asked pointing to a small slit that had been sewn up, "I was stabbed wearing this."

And this was only on the first day.

After a few weeks, he seemed to calm down a bit. He stopped trying to kill his managers, and he found that asking female colleagues if he could put his hand up their jumper was a bad thing. He even introduced us to his wife, a very attractive, yet vaguely terrified blonde, which made us wander what it was she saw in a clearly mad bloke with a face like the back end of a bus.

It turned out that Steve's home life was just as mental as work, and his wife rose to the challenge like a trooper.

"My Mrs hates me cutting me toenails in the kitchen," he announced one morning. I could see her point. "So what she did was collect them up off the floor, ground 'em up and serve 'em to me in me mashed potato."

Come to think of it, I'd do that as well.

"She only told me after I'd finished eating them, so I went out into the garage and turned the power off so she couldn't watch Coronation Street."

The evenings must simply fly by in the Barking Steve household.

It was only when certain sections of the female staff started taking him up on his offers of a quick feel up the busty substances that things started looking bad for Steve. You see, despite the rugged exterior and all the posturing, if there was one talent that Steve had, it was with the ladies. His was a relentless battering ram of flattery and straight talk that got him slapped round the face a lot, but eventually paid dividends, despite his married status. The manky old spunker.

And so it came to pass that he was caught on the security cameras allowing a certain young lady from Eastern Europe to play a tune on his pink oboe in the staff car park, and if there isn't a tape of this little episode still doing the rounds a good few years down the line, I'd be a very surprised man.

Their affair rumbled on and became more and more flagrant. There were reports of managers returning to their offices after a liquid lunch to find the pair hammering away across their desk, and on more than one occasion the toilet doors were barred with something heavy as groans and shrieks were heard from the inside. The plumbing was hell in that place - if it wasn't Steve and Katyana, it was transvestites dressing up on company time. A mad-house full of deviants and headcases.

And still he couldn't leave it alone. At one stage, according to official estimates he was carrying on with six of his colleagues. How they didn't find out about each other is anyone's guess. Ah... I remember now, they DID find out about each other, and that was the beginning of Barking Steve's downfall. Words were spoken, mostly to the head of personnel, and Steve was out of the door before he could say "you're all a bunch of bastards!"

But that wasn't the end of this. Barking Steve was convinced that he was an innocent man, and that we all had it in for him. OK, he was guilty as charged, but we couldn't get shot of him fast enough. So, ever the rational man, he started stalking our boss, following him home on his motorbike, shouting obscenities from the end of his drive until the police showed up and asked him to "keep it down a bit, if you don't mind sir, people are trying to sleep."

It wasn't long after his departure that I was talking to one of his many ladies, a dusky Russian girl from Novaya Zemlya, about work-related matters. Apropos of nothing, she said:

"That Steve - he mad as hat."

"Oh yeah? So, what did you see in him?"

She laughed, and elbowed me in the ribs, "He mad as hat - but hung like horse!"

Charming. The following week, I met his replacement.

"Pleased to meet you," said Anthony, whisky fumes wafting across the office as he lapsed in and out of a semi-comatose state, "D'you wanna fight?" Oh. God.

The Scaryduck Archive

Bad Day

It's finally happened. Bloggers' Block. Trapped miles from home on an alien computer, with neither my Big Book of Gags nor anything remotely interesting to say. So bollocks to this, I'm off to the shops for a quarter of cough candy and a copy of Asian Babes.

The sorry tale of Barking Steve tomorrow. About lunch time. If he lets me live.

The Scaryduck Archive

I know Kung Fu

The Scaryduck Movie Quote Poll is go. I have movie quotes coming out of my ears, for you have chosen. From your huge pile of suggestions last week, I have whittled them down to twenty by way of a final vote. Some films actually have more than one quote listed, and the fact that one of these is the cinematic masterpiece that is Flash Gordon worries me somewhat.

The voting form doesn't fit on my page, so click-o to vote-o!

Word of the Day: Schadenfreude

noun: Pleasure derived from the misfortunes of others.

Today, we are firmly in You've Been Framed and It'll Be Alright On The Night territory, having a good guffaw at somebody's granny severing both legs in a bizarre spacehopper tragedy. All this and Dennis Norden too.

When it comes to Humiliation TV, you can trust the Japanese to do it better than anybody else. The Japanese culture of "face" and the losing thereof, means that there is a near inexhaustible supply of easy targets.

Now, some of these shows are nasty in the extreme, but it is the original and best Takeshi's Castle - enjoying a bit of a comeback over here - that I'm a bit of a fan of.

Tokyo Broadcast System hasn't made any new Takeshi's for the best part of fifteen years, but it is still a stead seller on the TV export market with a worldwide cult following. In the UK, it's currently shown daily on Challenge TV on Sky Digital, frankly the only thing worth watch on that particular slice of TV mediocrity. I first caught up with the programme over a decade ago on Moroccan TV, and it is as incomprehensible now as it was then.

So, what was the point of this particular gameshow? One hundred competitors compete for a million yen prize (about 5,000 pounds these days) by flopping about in mucky ditches in a very muddy field just outside Tokyo, heaping shame on the family name. Fail, humiliated, you are out. Get to the end, storm the castle owned by Count Takeshi -a gentleman sporting a huge papier mache head like an oriental tribute to our very own Frank Sidebottom, and the prize is yours. I've only ever seen one winner, it's that tough. Pointless, even.

The games. Where do I start? Most involve some feat of individual skill, dumb luck or a mixture of the two, usually ending with a face full of muddy water "specially imported from a pig farm in Southern Japan." Most of the time, this means crossing a pond on booby-trapped stepping stones, log rollers that throw unsuspecting dopes to their doom, or vaulting across on a pole whilst being chased about by various sumo wrestlers and otherwise unemployable actors in daft costumes. The joy is not in the human endeavour, rather than in these nameless hopefuls failing. Spectacularly. You don't care about the winning - it's the crapness that counts.


So, the hundred contestants could be - and usually are - anybody, from What-in-the-name-of-Hirohito-am-I-doing-here housewives to Banzai bank managers. Tight editing, no sappy interviews, no names, no packdrill. It's just pain all the way.

I'm sure an ITV version would spoil it by adding Davina bloody MacCall thrusting her microphone into competitors' faces and spending half the show gassing. If the BBC weren't so scared of killing their contestants (Late Late Breakfast Show, anyone?) this would be ideal fare for BBC3 with a bunch of students competing for their tuition fees and a sack of beer money. I'd watch it, but only if they ditched Craig Charles and got General Li to host it. In the original Japanese.

The Scaryduck Archive

A choice of programming

Just starting on Robber Rabbit, an exclusive interview with celebrity TV house-finder Kirstie Allsopp on soceity's last taboo, and why the act of greasing your weasel should be legalised.

Stay on this channel for a bitter and twisted look back at 1980s Britain, with hardly any swearing.

At six o'clock tonight on ITV: Cockbadger News. Change the "region=" value in the url to maximise the comedy effect. God bless you, lazy ITV computer types.

Swastika Eyes: Thatcher Revisited

For strictly masturbatory reasons, I recently googled for a picture of Margaret Thatcher wearing a hat. It was only scrolling through the pages of almost-entirely chapeau-free results that I remembered the extremes of emotion that this one woman has wrought, both at home and abroad.

More than a decade after her fall from power, there are still ordinary, otherwise sane people who wouldn't hear a word spoken against her. On the other hand, there are many, many others who cannot wait for the old bitch to turn up her toes so they can pass water on her grave.

Confession: Aged a very immature twenty-one and armed with a vote for the first time, I strolled down to the polling centre and calmly voted for her. Actually, my cross went against the name "John Redwood", which makes me twice the fool.

Now, some of you weren't even born when Thatch came to power, some of you even have no memory of her as Prime Minister, so you'll have little idea how and why she is either reviled as the devil's daughter or celebrated as "the best PM since Churchill".

So think of Tony Blair in a dress. Thatcher had no need for spin-doctors - she did her own spin; so think of Tony Blair in a dress with Alistair Campbell's brain and David Blunkett's compassion for his fellow man with a snarling Tebbit-eque Rottweiler by her side, and you're halfway there. Now try to sleep tonight.

She famously said "This lady's not for turning", and there lay both her strength and her achilles heal. Strength came from her sheer determination to see a job through to the bitter end. No matter how unpopular her policies were - in a short-term world she thought long-term, certain she would eventually be proved right. Those who worked with her spoke of incredible drive, focus and a resolve to suceed in a man's world. Weak because she'd never admit to having made a mistake, and would press on with flawed policies such as the Poll Tax and privatisation of the utilities even when it was obvious that failure was imminent.

Thatcher first crossed into my life when, as Minister for Education, she cut free school milk for Primary Schools and her "Milk Snatcher" reputation for heartless budget-slashing was born.

Her first term as PM was marked by "The Cuts" - the ruthless hacking back at public services such as the National Health Service - which never recovered - turning my once rabidly Tory parents away from the party for ever. It wasn't even as if the cuts were fair - the south prospered, while the north was starved of investment. Loyal Tory councils were rewarded with huge grants, while those that opposed her and tried to keep services running were threatened with jail. She would have been turned out of power there and then if it wasn't for a nasty little war over a remote group of islands.

The Great Patriotic Falklands War of 1982 returned Thatcher to power in a landslide election victory the following year. But it's a little known fact that there was actually a peace deal on the table at the UN in May 1982, which guaranteed an unconditional Argentine withdrawl from the isalnds - the Galtieri regime in Buenos Aires had gambled that Thatcher would not resort to war to recover the islands, and were as surprised as anybody that Britain put up the resources to fight a conflict 8,000 miles from their shores. Argentina, then, was prepared to back dow. Thatcher wasn't. The same evening, she ordered the sinking of the Belgrano. Mother of a thousand dead, indeed.

Thatcher ruled with a rod of iron, or rather , a handbag with a brick inside, and was openly lampooned for her dominance over her rather lacklustre and subordinate cabinet. In a classic Spitting Image sketch, she and her Ministers are in a restaurant:

Waiter: "Welcome, Prime Minister. Would you care to order?"
Thatch: "Steak please, extra rare."
Waiter: "Very good. And the vegetables?"
Thatch: "Oh, they'll have the same."

Rather than write up an entire history of the Thatcher years, here are just a few reasons why this former Tory Boy opened his eyes to the world, with grateful thanks to an enlightened and immensely patient Rastafari office manager:

* The Miners' Strike - thousands of families destitute and communities destroyed in a desire to smash the unions and please the oil industry
* Shattered rail networks and health service
* Trident and Cruise - billions wasted on systems that were never used
* The Poll Tax - never fair, never equal, never right
* Bombing Libya - when it became clear soon enough that the disco bombing in Germany which provoked the attack was carried out by Syrian agents. Still, that learned him
* Shoot-to-kill in Ireland and Gibraltar and the comedy Sinn Fein gagging order
* 3.5 Million (and the rest) unemployed in the name of the "free market", squandering Britain's oil riches on social welfare, while hoardes of braying yuppies lived it up in the City. Now, there's a policy that worked.
* Pandering to a US Reagan administration that made Shrub look sane, coupled with a hatred for all things Europe. They didn't call her "Madame Non" for nothing, you know
* Support for the South African Apartheid regime
* Shitloads of other mad stuff

Need I go on? I remember the cheers when she was evicted from Number Ten, a tear in her eye. Six years of John Major followed, with Thatcherism still clearly pulling the strings, and just when we thought we'd got rid of her, Tony Blair removes the comedy rubber face mask he's been wearing for the last seven years, and there she is again. Every country gets the government it deserves - do we deserve this agony?

I wrote this piece a couple of weeks ago, not realising the Twenty-five Glorious Years celebrations were about to be set loose on an unsuspecting public. The front page of today's Torygraph is particularly horrific.

The Scaryduck Archive

Sheds - putting the record straight

A lot has been written about sheds and shedism in the blogging sphere over recent weeks, and it is time to put the record straight, especially in the face of ignorant comments made - let's face it - by women who wouldn't know a shed from a summer house.

Sheds are for blokes. Full stop. A woman in a shed is nothing but bad luck and could result in no end of horrific injuries, drownings, etc caused, in the main, by ignorance of the Way of the Shed. No female is ever privy to the complexities of shed design, construction, upkeep and use, for such activities are beyond their limited mental capacities.

A man's shed is his castle. It is sacred. A place for retreat from the strains of domestic living, where man, lawnmower and selection of slighlty damaged tools can live in perfect harmony. A man may customise his shed as he wishes, though any carpet must be either an offcut or a rug of at least thirty years old, left in a will by a disliked aunt. Any household object may be used in customisation, and it is the man's prerogative not to ask his significant other for its use. The line should be drawn at frilly curtains or any device which may be used to clean the shed.

Additionally, a man may construct secret compartments, or install a hard-to-open container, in which he may store pornography, womens' clothing, rashly purchased electrical goods or a lightly-oiled Sarah Beeny in the knowledge that the significant other will make no attempt to open or remove said container and throw it on a bonfire in a fit of pique.

The only activities allowed in sheds are those which can be desribed as "blokey" by the National Bloke Council Executive Committee. These include: woodwork, metalwork, loafing, reading pornography, listening to Test Match Special on Radio 4, devising plans to take over the world. Activities not approved by the NBCEC include needlework, listening to Women's Hour on Radio 4, reading any literature that does not include an act of sexual congress, amatuer radio (unless operating a pirate radio station named, for example, La Voz del Cabina - the voice of Shed Liberation).

This set of guidelines may, at first glance, appear to be nothing but a sexist diatribe aimed at the exclusion of femininity from a man's sheddish empire. Which they are, come to think of it.But where would you rather your man was? Down the pub eyeing up the barmaid and turning up sloshed at closing time trying to grab your norks, or safely in his shed mincing up and down in a lovely Laura Ashley frock? Come to think of it...

Women! Know your place!

On ID Cards

Zoe at My Boyfriend is a Twat hits the nail on the head about Blunkett's proposed ID cards. You can have as many made-up opinion polls as you like, the try to get us to accept the inevitable, but no bugger wants one.

My first act with my David Blunkett-o-matic ID card: thirty seconds on high in the microwave followed by the swift insertion of a picture of Kermit the Frog. What biometric data?


Undone II

More evidence, if it were needed, of my hellish descent into geekery and old gitism:

1. I travelled home on my favouritest train in the whole world last week - 2412 "Special Olympics". I bet its got the cleanest windows on the network.

2. I've taken to listening to Steve Wright in the Afternoon on Radio 2 and (here's the terrifying bit - I'd stop reading here if I were you) quite enjoy it. I still have the burning urge to ring in with fake traffic reports, you'll be pleased to hear. "Yeah, Wrighty - lorry full of gay porn shed it's load on the M2. Six mile tailbacks. Dreadful."

As a matter of fact, I'm quite looking forward to being an old git. It's the complaining and being unspeakably rude that appeals to me for some reason, and I had a good moan at the garage that hasn't fixed my car last Friday and felt loads better for it. At last, I think I may have found my vocation.

The Scaryduck Archive