Diet Club

Diet Club

The first rule of diet club. You do not eat all the pies. The second rule of diet club. You DO NOT eat all the pies.

There was no denying it, Penny was a big woman, and a career sitting in a civil service office wasn't exactly helping her lose the pounds, particularly as our office was directly over a Tesco supermarket and the lure of the the daily cream cake run. To be honest, it was doing none of us much good, and the girl with the sandwich trolley was often lucky to escape with her life.

So, it was hardly surprising that Penny should come in one morning with the news that her doctor had ordered her to lose weight. About three stone. And rather than having a spare limb lopped off, she was going to do it the hard way - by not eating and taking exercise. Being civil servants with nothing to do except count the cars in the Tesco car park and work out the day's most popular colour, we jumped on this chance to do something - anything - like tramps at an all-you-can-eat dustbin.

We all set ourselves target weights, drew up a hugely complicated graph, and set out the rules of Diet Club in the best Civil-Servantese. I had a stone to lose, Mark two, and Jeff, the skinny streak of piss, actually had to put on weight. Andy, because of his dicky heart was excused, and was put in charge of liberating different coloured pens from the heavily guarded stock cupboard to make the graph more interesting. Andy was a militant vegan, recently made reduntant from a health food shop. When he told the Job Centre this fact, they immediately found him employment at an abattoir, cutting up freshly slaughtered cows. The civil service was his second choice.

Monday was weigh-in day. You had to go down to Boots the Chemist, put your twenty pence in the electronic scales, and by the miracles of the microchip age, you were to bring the read-out back to Andy for verification and proper recording on the graph, which was prominently displayed on the wall, just under my Joy Division poster.

Jeff: "Who's this Joy Davison bird, then?"

In effect there was only one rule to Diet Club: don't cheat. Monday mornings were spent swearing off the cake and squeezing the biggest log possible out on the toilet before lunch. You'd wear your lightest clothes, even on the coldest, wettest of winter days, and we would all sit there, starving, waiting for lunch time and the dash down to Boots for the computer slip of doom. All except Jeff, who would stuff his face stupid in front of us, and Andy stunk the place out which his herbal tea.

The desperation on a Monday was palpable. Penny steadily lost wieght, while Mark's steadily headed up the graph and mine see-sawed up and down like a see-sawy up and down thing. The forfeits were enough to encourage steady weight loss - essentially being everybody's tea-making and paper-filing bitch for the whole week, physically restrained from spending money on the sandwich trolley.

Reports soon reached us that Mark was offering money to colleagues to act as ringers at his weigh-in, and come back with a slip showing a stunnig weight loss. This, naturally, could not be tolerated, resulting in the severe punishment of hiding his cigarettes and getting the switchboard to bar phone access to his mate's betting shop. Mark was a desperate man, and desperation makes us take desperate measures.

It was three o'clock on Monday afternoon. We had all reported back from our lunch-time weigh-ins with a series of respectable results. Penny was particularly pleased as the weight was simply melting off her, straight onto poor old Mark. Just a shame he seemed to have left the office at one and rather neglected to return. Had he done a runner?

Security, ten floors below us, rang our extension. Could somebody come down and vouch for a staff member who has mislaid his pass? Of course we could. I went. Anything to get out of real life actual work. And God, was it worth it.

There in the reception area was the security guard, a burly police officer and Mark, wearing nothing but his crusty y-fronts and a blanket.

"Yeah, he works here," I said trying not to laugh, "but usually he's got clothes on."

Poor, poor Mark. He'd got to Boots the Chemist, and desperation took hold of him. Spurred on by that TV advert of that fella taking his clothes off in the launderette, he put his money into the weighing machine, stripped down to his pants, and as the world stared, he jumped onto the scales for his best weigh-in for weeks. When he stepped down from the scales to get dressed, he found that some joker had done a runner with all his clothes. It was only a matter of time before there was this blue flashing light and an invitation to spend the afternoon in a bang-you-in-the-ass police cell, which he politely refused.

I let him have his clothes back. Eventually.

Possible gay interest?

Possible gay interest?

A letter in South West Trains on-board magazine suggests a poster campaign urging passengers to use the racks provided instead of hogging extra seats for their luggage and coats.

"Seats are for bottoms, not tops and bags"

I find this incredibly funny, but I have also been accused of knowing far too much about the ways of the gayness, "and besides, we're full and we don't have any vacancies".

Not even for "Bi now, gay later?"

I have uncovered, much to my horror, a sordid world of gayness on ebay, enough to make the pages of the Daily Mail spontaneously combust. Search for "gay interest" and it's all ...um... very interesting. If you're gay*.

There is very, very little on e-bay for "possible straight interest". I blame Little Britain.

Get-out clause: mumblememumblemumble...some of me best friends, etc...

* According to ebay, gay people only wear very, very, very, very small underwear. *checks boxers*

Dick

Dick

"Power corrupts; absolute power corrupts absolutely."

To the theatre to witness a searing indictment of power politics in Blair's corporate Britain from an anarcho-Marxist* perspective in the Weymouth production of "Dick Whittington".

Dark themes of the abuse of power, the rape of Fallujah and the rise of the religious right in America are all exposed by a committed company of TV b-listers, with more than a passing nod to such giants of the dramatic arts as The Bard Shakespeare, Oscar Wilde and the Chuckle Brothers.

The Dame's constant costume changes are redolant of Britain's transformation into a multi-cultural, gender-andogynous society; while the fool that was Idle Jack - a barbed critique of the so-called Chav Culture - appealed to the basest instincts of the lumpenproletariat.

While the evil King Rat - clearly a Blair/Bush amalgam that was quite properly booed from the stalls - battled with the good fairy - a metaphor for the gay rights battle in the face of the New Fundamentalism - it is clearly the central roles of Dick and his cat that steal the show.

Much like the one, true hope that this country possesses - a man wronged who will turn again and lead Britain to a brave, new world in the blurring of party political distinctions, this is a clarion call for the genius that is Boris Johnson to turn again - in a way that the hoplessly flawed Baroness Thatcher and her puppet Blair refused - and return in glory.

The fact that this production - a call for Tory unity in the face of "New" Labour's catastrophic abandonment of its socialist principals, forging a new covenant with the people of this Isle with Johnson at the helm - was staged in Labour's most marginal constituency is not lost on this critic. A triumph.

On the other hand, it was a most excellent night of arse gags, a bloke in a dress ("Eeh! I've pissed meself!" was clearly not in the script) and some of the finest corpsing ever witnessed on the stage of the Weymouth Pavilion. And I got to meet the Mayor, who was taking notes.

* Groucho would have been turning in his grave

Going Postal

Going Postal

Things that convince you that the dice really are loaded:

1. Despite careful folding and the utmost sphincter control, your fingers always go through the paper on the first wipe.

2. Planting yourself on the toilet at the point-of-no-return to find that there is no paper at all. Worse still, finding only one sheet of paper, and your bottom resembles a Venezuelan mudslide.

3. Invisible dog poo which attaches itself to the underside of your carpet slippers when you have merely stepped outside for five seconds to put the bin out. You only realise your misfortune after you have walked it all over the hall, kitchen and living room.

4. The words "Can I have a word, Mr Duck?" when you go to pick the kids up from school.

5. The phrase "These funds will take six days to clear" when you transfer a balance in your online bank account. Six days? How do they send it? Carrier pigeon?


People I really, really want to kill:

1. Decaffeinated coffee? Why? In the name of shuddering fuck, why? I can produce witnesses who have seen somebody ordering a "de-caf double espresso" in a coffee shop. This person deserves to drown in a vat of freshly refined caffeine

Boxing Day

Boxing Day

So, I ended up at work today. And my motivation, apart from the desire to bring red-hot, high-quality news at it happens to the screens of a baying public? Ah yes, I remember - 100 quid.

So thank you, dear Santa, for industrial-sized vat of jelly babies. And the socks. And the pyjamas. And the carpet slippers. And, of course, the Y-fronts. I haven't worn Y-fronts since I was a New Romantic, twenty-something years ago. It'll be like a trip down Memory Lane. But without the eye-liner, obviously.

Oh, and the cuddly duck was ...umm... most unexpected. I shall call him Wello.

Confess-me-do. What did you get? More to the point, what the hell are you doing here today?

Ski Jump: White Christmas Woe

Ski Jump: White Christmas Woe

And so, the Christmas Scary Story. You asked for festive chaos, and by golly, that's what you're going to get.

White Christmases have always been a bit of a rarity in my lifetime. Apart from the short period when I lived at the foot of the Rockies in Canada, they have been, sad to say, few and far between.

The only one I can remember in the UK was 1976, a cold, snowy winter that followed a summer of endless sunshine. For a ten-year-old kid, that's exactly the perfect kind of weather we should always be getting. Cooked to a cinder one day, up to your eyeballs in the white stuff the next.

So, Christmas Day 1976, where the snow lay, if not particularly deep, certainly crisp and even. After the present-opening ritual, we ran out into the street to discuss the day's swag with friends, and to get down with the serious business of our favourite hobby: chaos.

I've mentioned in other stories that our road in Twyford was on the side of a hill, and certain houses had driveways which resembled the north face of the Eiger. One of these houses remained empty for years (the speculation was that it was haunted following the mysterious death of the owner), and had the perfect drive for racing go-karts, bikes and skateboards. And with several inches of untouched snow, it was now the perfect ski slope.

Except there were just a few minor problems with the concept:
1. Nobody had any skis.
2. Nobody knew how to ski.
3. There was the small matter of Matty's house and several cars parked in the road opposite.

As if that was going to put any of us off. Rummaging around in freezing cold sheds and garages provided us merry few with planks of wood and endless supplies of gaffer tape, which would serve as bindings for our makeshift skis. They were, I am afraid to say, and utter disaster. You couldn't walk in them, you couldn't even stand up straight in them, and worst of all, their usefulness as ski-ing implements was zero.

Using a couple of bean poles as sticks, you'd push yourself off at the top of the hill, slide about two feet before the tips snagged on something, and you'd be left face down in the white stuff. Complete waste of time, and as we were called inside one-by-one for our Christmas dinners, it was agreed that we should try another tack later on if any fun was to be had out of the day.

A couple of hours later, we emerged into the dusk, fuller, wobbling slightly from too much turkey and the misguided parental application of "Oh let him have a glass of wine, it's Christmas after all".

John was carrying a large tea tray "A souvenir from Brighton" which he had swiped from under his mum's nose. Tea trays, as we all know are ten times better than any sledge or toboggan you can buy in the shops, and have the added advantage of being useful as giant frisbees when the snow melts.

To the top of the drive we struggled, and with the shove to end all shoves, John careered down the slope at speed, between two parked cars and clattered into Matty's front step opposite. Magic, so we all had a go. In fact, we all had several goes, and the ski run got fast and faster as the compacted snow turned to ice.

But there was something missing.

"What we need," I mused, having seen the world's greatest athletes on Ski Sunday, "is a ski jump."

Yes. We needed a ski jump. So we built one, right there on the pavement at the bottom of number 32's drive.

It was a monster, carefully crafted with every piece of snow from miles around, curving upwards from a gentle slope to a frightening forty-five degree angle, four feet off the ground. Evel Knievel would have had second thoughts about taking it on. And like Evel Knievel, we thought "Danger? What's a few broken bones amongst friends?" and got on with it.

Becuase of the dangers involved, we thought it best to ask for volunteers to try out the great ski jump. There were none, so we hit Squaggie until he gingerly sat on the tray and cast off.

Down and down he went, picking up speed, before he hit the ramp with a blood-curdling scream, rose gracefully into the air and executed a perfect landing on Matty's lawn.

What a disappointment.

"That hurt my arse," he said, so an old cushion was rescued from our garage and put to good use.

All of a sudden there was a clammering to have a go on the Great Ramp before grown-ups rumbled what we were up to and put and end to our fun. Just as long as they were glued to the Morecambe and Wise Christmas Special, we were fine.

John next, and defying the law of averages, he too executed a fine jump-and-landing that would probably have won a medal in the Winter Olympics. Matty, however, his "wee glass of wine" and grandmother-administered sherry getting the better of him, decided he just HAD to be different.

"I'm going down standing up," he declared.

"That's crazy talk!"

"You're mad!"

"You're gonna die! Can I have your presents?"

There was no talking him out of it. He stood on the tray, and gingerly pushed himself down the slope. As a fresh flurry of snow fell, the world fell silent in dread expectation.

Ffffffffffffffffffffsssssssssssssssshit! went the tray.

Flapflapflapflap went Matty's flares.

"Meeeeeeeeeee-aaaaaaaaaaaaargh!!!!" went Matty.

It was close, so very, very close. The tray struck the ramp at a slight angle, and instead of hitting the gap between the two parked cars, Matty executed a perfect back somersault before spread-eagling himself across the bonnet of his grandad's pride and joy - his immaculate Mark I Ford Cortina.

We slipped and slid down the driveway to rescue our fallen comrade. He had landed straddling the front wing mirror, missing his meat and two veg by mere inches. He lay groaning in what could only be described as a boy-shaped depression on the bonnet.

"I don't feel too good."

He was right, too.

"Yaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarch!"

Rich, brown, steaming vomit filled with turkey, roast potatoes and all the trimmings, sweets, fizzy pop and some foul substance that we later realised was marshmallow. All over the front of the car, running down into a little brown pool round his stomach. It would take them forever and a day to get the last of it out of the windscreen jets.

"Yaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarch!" he said again.

There was only one thing to do under these circumstances of extreme vehicular and vomit woe: flee for our lives and let Matty take the rap. It was only fair, and after all, his sacrifice would be appreciated for many Christmases to come. It turned out, however, that he too had fled the scene of the crime, limping back to his house, with his family none the wiser.

During the night, the vomit froze. And the following morning Matty's grandad left the house for the long, slow drive back to Southsea.

"What's that on my car?" he asked.

John's tea tray was never seen again.

The Scaryduck Christmas Message

The Scaryduck Christmas Message

Because of this, I wrote this - a Christmas Tale in 100 words - rather making a mockery of Monday's post. See? I can do serious.

A child is born

Displaced persons.

Foreign armies.

No room at the inn, she heavy with child, he with nothing but dignity.

Amongst the animals, in Bethlehem's town, a child is born to the humblest of parents.

No angels to praise, no shepherds offering worship.

Kings and wise men remain far away in their towers, for theirs is the war we wage.

David's star flies overhead, rockets firing death at those below. Insurgency, suicide bombers, refugee camps, bulldozed homes, despair, anger, death is the only release.

Where is the love in the Holy Land?

Where is Christ in Beit Lachem?


And while we're talking war, Riverbend in Baghdad hopes Santa's got an armoured sleigh when he comes to visit this year...

Thursday sees a return to normal abnormal service with the publication of an all-new vomit-flavoured Christmas tale of woe, featuring pain, vomit and a Mark I Ford Cortina.

James Herbert: A tribute

James Herbert: A tribute to the third greatest author of all time

When you're a teenager and coming to terms with the fact that books are, in fact, rather interesting, you need to find an author that appeals to a lad of your age. You've graduated from Famous Five and Roald Dahl, and you are thrashing around for something that reflects your interests. Those being, of course, extremely painful death and shit hot pornography.

Now, you could just clear the local library of every Sven Hassel book they've got and start a collection of works by the world-famous-in-motorway-service-station-shops "Anonymous", but why bother when there's a writer out there combing the two genres in a dream combination?

And along came James Herbert. It's as if he knew what we wanted. And thanks to parents who left copies of his works lying around, there seemed to be an endless supply of extremely painful death and shit hot pornography to feed our impressionable young minds.

The Rats. Giant man-eating rats invade London.

The Fog. Mind-bending hallucinogenic fog invades London, turning people into raving sex-crazed, axe-wielding homocidal lunatics.

The Dark. A bit like The Fog, only darker.

Lair. Giant man-eating rats invade London. Again.

Fluke: Man reincarnated as dog. No sex. No violence. Written solely to stop Mrs Herbert's nagging.

You can see a recurring theme here. Madness or blood curdling threat, with one man giving his all to save the day. But that is not why we read Mr Herbert's works. James Herbert wrote the filthiest porn imaginable, only trumped in recent years by Brett Easton Ellis, who is clearly influenced by the master of the genre*. Singlehandedly, Herbert spawned a generation of extremely twisted teenagers.

Just pick up any James Herbert novel, and let it fall open at random. Chances are, it'll flop open at the start of several pages of crazed sexual action, which often had an explose effect on teenage minds. Not to mention the groinal areas.

Unfortunately, these scenes often climaxed with the protagonists dying in the most foul manner imaginable, eaten by rats, or in one case, having a loaded shotgun shoved up their chuff. Grown men, to this day, still wince at the teenage memory of a rather stirring sex orgy in The Fog culminating in a gentleman losing his genitals to a pair of rusty garden shears. In fact, I think I'll go for a bit of a lie down right now.

James Herbert has sold over 40,000,000 books in his time. That's an awful lot of messed-up teenagers. What a man.

* If you don't believe me, read Glamorama with a) the mankiest sex scene ever and b) some of the most disturbing acts of violence ever committed to paper. I gave my copy to the Help the Aged shop.

Scaryduck’s ‘Did You Know...?’

Scaryduck’s ‘Did You Know...?’ No. 8

After years of speculation, the Turin Shroud - long held to be the image of Jesus after His crucifixion - has finally been proved to be a fake and the result of a crude practical joke.

Scientists, using the latest "Tesco Value range" technology have demonstrated that the shroud - venerated by millions of faithful as a holy relic - is, in fact, the result of our Lord and Saviour messing about with the office photocopier during the Joe Nazareth and Sons (Carpenters) Ltd [Motto: "Miracles in Wood"] Christmas party. Closer inspection shows that He is wearing the 17AD Manchester United replica kit, a birthday present from His mum, back-printed with the name "16 Keane" in tribute to his favourite player.

Further proof of this dramatic finding comes in the shape of papers suppressed for centuries by the Vatican, recently made public in a complex court case designed to keep Mother Theresa of Calcutta's boudoir pictures out of the public eye. These documents reveal a crude Xerox of the Messiah's arse marked "Important fax message for all departments", where the name tag on His boxer shorts is clearly visible.

Senior Catholic Church officials were today unavailable for comment pending preparations for this year's Vatican Grand Prix.

The Duke of Kent Story

Suggest. Oh.

Blimes. You are an imaginative lot, aren't you?

Tell you what, there's an awful lot of suggestions to get through, so I'll spend the week working out a) a story and b) how to ping Charles Clarke's enormous jug-ears until he passes a law on ear-pinging. Next Thursday (a day early for staying-at-the-parents-in-law-woe reasons) will be a Christmas Spectacular Tale of Mirth, Woe and a small boy with a limp saying "God Bless us, every one!"

Naturally, the whole exercise was just an excuse to foist the Duke of Kent story on you. So...

The Duke of Kent Story

I once met the Duke of Kent. Lovely chap, even if he represents an outmoded hierarchical system of feudal power, and probably eats live mice in his spare time.

I managed not to offend him too much either. Okay, only a little bit.

"Born in 1935, HRH The Duke of Kent is the son of the late Prince George, fourth son of King George V, and the late Princess Marina, daughter of Prince Nicholas of Greece", says the Royal Family website adding, making the lot of them sound like a bunch of interbreeding country bumpkins, "He is cousin to both The Queen and The Duke of Edinburgh." The website fails to mention where he gets his annual freebie to the Cup Final from, but by the sounds of things, it's to keep him quiet about that nasty business about Princess Anne marrying a horse by mistake.

Any road up, they spent millions of taxpayer's money building a whole new wing on our building, with a lovely shiny computer room, and a lovely shiny mainframe computer which they only got working properly a week before it was replaced. With all this cold, hard cash *cough* invested in new technology and stuff, it was only right to ask a big name to come and open the place for business. We couldn't get The Krankies or Jasper Carrott, so they sent the Duke of Kent instead. Which would have been nice, but they made us take all our camp beds and nudie calendars home.

Come the big day, the place is crawling with security, though it has to be said, rather less than when Ian Paisley came to the offices of my previous job in his capacity as loud shouty person to scare the shit out of our slimy boss. Totally non-plussed, I thought I could spend the day ignoring the whole event, feet up on the computer console, reading Viz. And that's exactly what I did, with some quality scratching of the bollocks added for effect. After all, the Royal Party was coming nowhere near where I was shacked up - just a quick peek at the mainframe at the other end of the corridor and away to far more exciting things, such as the free buffet.

Slight diversion:

One of my female colleagues is on a nightshift. With very little doing on a barely functioning system, she is doing what every other bugger does on nights - getting a good ten hours' kip on a camp bed. Much to her surprise, the phone rings. Our one and only user is on the other end, and his VDU screen has gone, to use the technical term, "tits".

"I'll see what I can do," she says, leaping from her pit and running into the computer room. A couple of taps on the console keyboard, and she darts back into the office to see if the user is happy. No he isn't. Back into the mainframe room she goes, reboots the chap's computer, and at last he can get on with his life.

It was at that point that my esteemed colleague realised that she was totally naked.

You don't get that on the twilight shift at B&Q.

Back on topic...

But no, HRH turns out to be a hardcore computer nerd, and a mere glimpse of the throbbing majesty of two Honeywell DPS8000 mainframes and a dozen DPS6 support processors (only one of two systems like this in the world, fact fans!), the cutting edge of late 1980s computing technology, was not enough for him. He wanted it all.

Before I knew what was happening, my quiet corner was filled with stern-looking men in suits, some of whom I knew as senior management, torn from their natural office environment and into alien space where people actually worked. The other chap I instantly recognised as the chap from the Cup Final. And they wouldn't even let me finish "Buster Gonad" either, the bastards.

"Ah," said the General Manager, realising he had no idea who, or what, I was, "Ah. Could you should the Duke our computer system?"

Ah.

I could, but I wasn't actually logged in to show him anything, and there lay the nub. There were difficulties, you see. I tried to lecture him on the advantages of a mainframe text-based system over a linked computer network, which all experts agreed would never catch on. But no, he wanted red-hot computer action. I would have to log in. There was no escaping it - I would have to brazen it out.

You see, these were the days before your password came up as ****** when you typed it in. It didn't matter as most people didn't bother changing their own from the day the behemoth had been switched on, and "1" was good enough for them. Not me. Oh no! I had to be different. I had to be clever. And now the Duke of Kent was over my shoulder, and he and the Head of the BBC World Service were going to kill me. I typed:

USERNAME> DUCK
PASSWORD?

No going back. Just do it, and collect your cards in the morning. I typed the second letter of the alphabet. Then the fifteenth. Twelfth. Twelfth. Fifteenth. Third. Eleventh. Nineteeth. Enter key. It was done. The screen cleared itself and presented the user menu. Not a word was spoken, except my nervous tones as I explained Europe's largest text-management system to the Queen's cousin and Cup Final gatecrasher. Then, at last, they left to unveil a small plaque in the Atrium. And breathe out....

Nothing happened the next day, or the day after that. It was only the following Monday that my manager put his head round the door, and in his broad Dublin accent said just one sentence to me:

"Scary, there's a chap - change your password."

Bollocks.

The Thursday Suggest-me-up

The Thursday Suggest-me-up

Thrashing around in the dark like a former Home Secretary forced to return his ministerial guide dog, I've gone and left my file of Scary Stories at work, and have no idea which ones to stick in this week's vote-o.

So... suggest a story idea for this week, and the best idea gets written up. Then I'll go out and make damn sure that it happens to me to ensure that my Scary Stories remain 100 per cent true. I may even end up with some sort of bastardised hybrid of all your ideas. Now that would be woe.

Suggest-o!

Concert woe

Concert woe

Scandal, woe and calumny struck the otherwise genteel junior school carol concert last night.

The recital of a poem entitled "The Barn" - recounting the story of the animals in the stable where Baby Jesus was born - resulted in a near riot, cries of "Well, I never!" and hoots of laughter in the pews of All Saints Church when one line just sort of came out wrong.

The line in question being: "I'm sick of those clucking hens."

Kids, eh?

Phone woe

Phone woe

The wife rang my office number in something of a frenzy.

"Why didn't you call me back?" she demanded, "I left an urgent message half an hour ago."

"I didn't get no steenkin' message," I protested, raising further ire from my beloved.

"I left it with Kevin."

Ah. Kevin.

I had deleted a cryptically blank e-mail with (and I quote) "ere u O ur missus" in the subject line not ten minutes previously.

I had assumed, and not without reason, that he was doing a rather poor text-based impression of Frankie Howard, and deleted it.

"It's the 'O'," said Kevin, "It means 'ring'."

"I beg to differ, it means you're a nob."

Emergency over.

On the Level

On the Level

To the Freemason's Hall on Friday night to celebrate a friend's birthday.

Plied with alcohol, we were "entertained" by a man with an accordian playing the hits of The Wurzels and other crimes against the musician's art.

At the given signal, drunken harlots, none of whom were my wife, nor a day under fifty, flashing cavernous cleavages and rotating flunges dragged the male guests to the dance floor. Accompanied by a never-ending medley of country and western hits, they spun and gyrated in front of us in the most wanton fashion imaginable. There was a buffet, too.

I'm not 100 per cent certain, but I think this means that I'm now in the masons, and it's all been a terrible, terrible mistake.

Luckily, I've got my own apron - I gather that the type with comedy breasts goes down a storm with the brethren down the lodge.

Anyone need a brickie?

The Elton John Story

The Elton John Story

Confession: I was once paid twenty quid to be in an Elton John video.

Twenty of your English pounds for a day which left me with mental scars of rejection and sexual deviancy that I fear will never heal. Damn you wiggy!

I was fourteen and in the scouts, camping out in a wood just outside Oxford with dozens of other scout troops from all over the country. It was one of those dodgy scout camps where the swimming pool was green, the climbing wall hadn't killed anyone for at least three weeks, and the camp fire talk was on the quality of the weed rather than ging-gang-goolies.

While our glorious leader played with his girlfriend's tits in a securely fastened bell-tent, we spent our time setting fire to things and trying to appear attractive to the neighbouring Girl Guide troop. In particular, there was a rather comely young thing called Sharon, who would meet your humble narrator in a quiet hollow for intense discussions on the state of the nation and the need for an increased morality in the nation's youth. And, following Skip's example, try to play with her tits. Baden-Powell would have had kittens.

And I might have gotten away with it too, if it were not for Elton Hercules John and his meddling ways! The Rocket Man had a single coming out, and in this MTV age, he needed a video to promote it. And, somewhere along the line, he decided that it would have teenage boys in it. Teenage boys in uniform, of which Boars Hill Scout Camp just outside Oxford had a plentiful supply running around trying to get off with Girl Guides.

A flunky turned up with a fleet of coaches at some ungodly hour of the morning, and after an endless drive into the countryside, we were herded into an aircraft hangar in the middle of nowhere. Once there, we were forced to run about in ancient scout uniforms - baggy shorts and wide-brimmed hats that smelled like they'd been rescued from the bottom of a swamp - for the cameras for about six hours by a bunch of luvvies wielding their best grooming poles.

To be frank, I wasn't entirely sure if there really WAS a pop video, but a grown man had thrust a newly-printed twenty pound note into my hand and that would go a long way toward impressing Sharon from Luton. And Elton, being virtually royalty, can be forgiven almost anything. The old queen.

It was all to no avail. The great man threw a hissy fit and didn't make an appearance - he famously loathes video shoots - and apparantly changed his mind about the whole thing soon after. I think he expected more nudity, dyb-dyb-dobbing and woggles, and the entire day's footage went unused. Unless you count its recent re-appearance on websites of a specialist nature.

My bid for stardom was thwarted, as were my chances with the lovely Sharon from 2nd Luton Guides, who had neglected to tell me that her troop had signed an exclusive deal with Whitney Houston, and would be striking camp immediately for the fresh fields of Bedfordshire.

I took the rejection like a man - the timely discovery of a stash of hardcore pornography works wonders for the broken-hearted. And good God, have you ever been to Luton?

Year down the line, however, it still rankles that Elton deprived me of a red hot summer of lust ...err... love where I too may have got my turn in the bell tent. I really feel I should be informing not only the Police over the nature of this episode, but also The News of the Screws and Popbitch.

Not a Thursday vote-o

Not a Thursday vote-o

Thanks to the wonders of blogger, I will only be pretending to be here tomorrow, and will therefore be slapping up a Scary Story chosen by Ed on the Farm. It'll probably be brilliant and will almost certainly be the one you would have voted for*.

Anyhoo, if you still have the urge to take part in a democratic process of some sort, why not scoot across to my padowan learner Scarydog, who, by the most amazing coincidence, is also holding a Thursday vote-o. I like to think that he's my Mini-Me. And mind your bloody swearing - he is but a kid.

* Lie

Spam of the Day

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We are able to supply tent to the specification!

The other Spam of the Day

As a man of the world, I consider myself fairly well up on the latest sexual deviancies.

However, today I was rather confused after receiving a spam e-mail with the subject line "Hot girls squirting milk out of their ass".

I accept that I spent my biology classes staring at Miss Shagwell's none-more-pneumatic chest when I should have been paying attention to the blackboard, but have I missed out on something?

Preview

Hat-based stupidity over at Robber Rabbit, a bit of a preview from my latest literary work which I'm trying out on real people. Your comments, etc...

Stuffpile

Local news

Dorchester's town crier has returned to duty after an eighteen-month hiatus after suffering from a bout of depression. While there's nothing funny about mental illness (I'm as barking as the next man, if you'd care to use the correct medical term), the idea of a manic depressive town crier is full of comic possibilities.

"Oyez! Oyez! Oh what's the bloody point..."

"Hear ye! In the name of Her Majesty the Queen I cannot possibly be arsed to read this shit..."

"Oyez! Town crier *spang* beats self to *spang* death *spang* with bell *spang*"

Also from the Dorset Echo: Best Headline Evah for a local news story about local vicars holding Christmas carol services in Asda's Weymouth branch: "Jesus Christ, Superstore"

World News

In an attempt to make the Home Office more inclusive, David Blunkett has taken to interviewing all prospective job candidates himself with the question "Tits or face?"

Contrary to popular opinion, funnyman Benny Hill did not die in solitude in 1992. He simply moved to Finland where he set up one of the world's largest telecommunications companies. You may have heard their popular advertising slogan "Knickers! Knackers! Nokia!"

Top Tip!

Don't spend the night getting mind-bendingly drunk on a mixture of red wine and Scotch.

Pink vomit is ALL teh gay.

Disillusionment

A sad, sad day in the Duck household where I have been forced to shatter my daughter's illusions about a certain fictional figure.

Dame Edna, I told her, tears welling up, is an extremely unfunny bloke in a dress.

The tooth fairy, according to my spies, is also a bloke in a dress. This solves, for once and for all, what it is that Michael Winner actually does.

St Egbert's Day

St Egbert's Day

From Old Tosspot's Almanack - 7 December: The day traditionally set aside for the preparation and the bringing to the boil of vegetables for the Christmas Day feast.

If we study the scriptures (IKEA edition) St Egbert's letter to the Rostbifs clearly teaches:

"And 18 days shall thee boil these cabbages, and cauliflowers, and broccoli, and artichokes, and asparagus tips, and onions, and sprouts, and verily the carrots. No more, no less. For in this we remember the number of pole dancers at Our Lord's last supper, for it pleased him greatly. And Judas, in his sin, did offer to pay for 'extras'."

Followers of St Egbert (such as my parents-in-law) openly denounce the microwave oven as "Satan's Death Rays", following St Egbert the Anaemic's teachings to the letter. Acolytes should, by the 25th, be able to eat their Christmas dinner through a straw, and sell the waste water to B&Q as paint stripper.

8 December: St Kilroy's Day (not Belgium). Followers are encouraged to paint themselves orange, speak in tongues and pour a bucket of shit over their own head.

Dear Santa

At last. The Weebl and Bob DVD is with us. With added Brian Blessed shouty goodness.

Rubbish

Rubbish

Now, I understand that it is illegal to fish stuff out of the skips at your local rubbish tip one they have been thrown in my a previous punter. It is, in fact, theft - theft of other people's shit.

However, dumping several tons of builders' rubble, wood and associated detritus from the back of my car at Weymouth Municipal Tip, my eye was caught by the familiar shape of a DVD case.

How rare!

A swift look about me, and there was no burly council ape to prevent my act of petty theft, so I leant in and fished out my prize. Tucking it into my coat, I drove home, and in the relative safety of my shed, I examined my spoils.

"Grannies Cumming 2", an hour-and-a-half exploration of the sexual habits of the older generation, in full blood-coming-out-of-your-eye-sockets graphic detail. In the name of research, I watched every frame of that disgusting spectacle. Twice.

Um. Any takers?

Someone has suggested that perhaps the best way to get rid of my loot is to be as generous as I can to the local community: Go into Dixons, put it into one of their huge home cinema demo setups, press play and run away laughing like a drunken ostrich.

However, the old saying "You can't get rid of porn" will come back to haunt me - I will arrive home to find it sitting on the coffee table, laughing at me with a demented, elderly cackle, before sending me to the Post Office for its pension, five pounds worth of TV Licence stamps and a copy of "Forty and Naughty".

It has been pointed out to me that there was sufficient interest in Grannies Cumming 1 to warrant a sequel. Well, excuse me, I watch Film 2004 every week I never saw it at the Weymouth Cineworld. The manky amongst you may wish to look the title up on Google, where you will find it riding high in the porny video charts, kept off the number one spot by the John Leslie/Abi Titmuss fiasco, the "Shaddap you Face" of the pornographic art, as it were.

Abi: "She's got her finger up my bum. It's very rude."
Leslie: "Help ma boab!"

A little bit of digging through the seedy end of google reveals that the "talent" in this cinematic opus may be engaged for as little as £75 per hour to re-enact pivotal scenes from the drama* in the comfort of your home. You don't get that with Tom Hanks.

* Such as a nice bit of ironing and a cup of tea.

The Uri Geller story: Mystic woe

The Uri Geller story

Geller: Not a fraud at all

There are things you shouldn't do in life. Playing British Bulldog in the fast lane of the M1, for example. Or requesting "YMCA" at a British National Party Disco. I'd like to nominate a third category: insulting those with the power of WITCHCRAFT. Especially when this is combined with the awesome power of CELEBRITY, a dread power chronicled in a recent paper published by The New England Journal of Shit I Could Have Told You Myself. I just couldn't help myself, and now I firmly believe there is a shadow over me - a long, dark shadow of an evil hex by a man who, as I am sure you all know, is not a fraudulant publicity whore at all.

I'm not just saying that because he's an former Israeli Army paratrooper who could probably snap my neck and feed me to a starving Paul Daniels with just the merest flick of the wrist. And laugh about it afterwards over a bent-spoon buffet with his best friend Michael "I'm not weird, either" Jackson.

You see, and I really should have engaged brain first before opening mouth: I once told the world's number one mystic Uri Geller to fuck off. To his face. Whilst armed with a selection of cutlery.

There he was, right in my way, blocking a narrow doorway, impressing the mentally retarded with his genuine and not-fake-in-any-way-whatsoever spoon-bending skills and it just sort of slipped out.

"And so," said Uri to the huddled masses, "see how it bends, yes?"

Huddled masses: "Oooooh!"

Me: "Look, just fuck off, will you? And you as well. Fuck off."

He fucked off.

Short, sweet, and another brush with celebrity that had gone horribly, horribly wrong.

He didn't even try to kick me in the melvin or anything. Oh no, he was biding his time, planning to use his ancient DARK POWERS of Not-Fraudulant-at-all-Bollocks against my person.

Either that, or he was the bastard who let the tyres down on my bike.

Not long after that, both my legs fell off in a bizarre spacehopper accident, while my entire family was kidnapped and shipped to Michael Jackson's Neverland Ranch where they eke out a miserable existence in unsufferable luxury. Worse, my house is now bent at a ninety degree angle to the rest of the universe and my boss has somehow got me confused with Kat Slater from EastEnders.

Cursed, I am, cursed!

Coincidence? I think not. It's VOODOO!

Dogging news

All this AND the Thursday vote-o

This week I finally got my grubby hands on a dictophone. Apart from boring colleagues to death with the world's only dictaphone gag ("No, use your finger like everybody else does") I am now able to mumble blog ideas, low quality jokes and general rants ("South West Trains can stick it up their arse" is a choice cut from this week's aural notes) into the thing whilst in public places.

This puts me, or "Man with dictation device" just above "People who call other people 'Jimmy'" and slightly below "Have you got five quid for me train fare home" on the Beadle scale of public nuisances, and should be avoided at all costs.

Enough already! The time has come to vote for tomorrow's Scary Story. Six to choose from, you lucky devils:

* Haunted Holiday: "Unsure about the legality of the whole affair, he instead decided to use horse manure instead, just to be on the safe side."
* Diet Club: "Come back and take what's coming to you!" she screamed. But it was no good, Glenn Hoddle had fled.
* Underneath the Arches: "I expect you're wondering why I called you here. And I'll tell you, but first show me that trick with the frozen sausage."
* The Elton John story: "Saturday Night may have been alright for fighting, but I was unsure if that move was strictly legal outside the bounds of a prison shower."
* The Duke of Kent story: "I say, old man," he said, licking his lips in a disconcerting manner, "You don't have a live mouse about your person, by any chance?"
* The Uri Geller story: "We set up all kinds of booby traps, some fatal, some not. And yet, like some hell-sent wraith, he defeated them all."

Still here? Vote, then! Vote-me-up!

Dogging news

Last night was spent in the most profitable manner possible, with a trip down to Whitehall with a big bottle of that aniseed-flavoured spray favoured by hunt sabateurs to send hunt dogs on a mad barking frenzy round the countryside.

Starting outside the main doors to the Home Office and doing my best to look like a goofy yokel tourist up from the sticks (an act that comes naturally, I am pleased to say), I managed to lay out a twisty-turny Benny Hill-type trail up and down the seat of British government, crossing several bus lanes and extremely busy roads, ending up in the Leopard enclosure at London Zoo.

So, as a top tip, you might like to watch one of the twenty-four hour news channels today for the moment David Blunkett and guide dog turn up for work - with hilarious results!

I am not mad.

Homework

Homework

It was bound to happen sooner or later, what with being the parent of two children of that difficult age.

"Dad - do my homework for me."

The lazy little sods.

"It's maths."

"Easy."

"And you've got to show your workings."

"Oh, spoons."

Here, you have a go if you think you can do any better:

Q: Johnny has £7.20 in 10p pieces, whilst Niamh has £11.60 in 20p pieces. Who has the most coins, and how many?
A: Johnny has 14 more, just get used to it. But extra credit to Niamh for having a) a stupid name and b) the nous to rob phone boxes.

Q: Which number between 30-60 is a common multiplier of 3, 4 and 8?
A: 48. However, I am unable to reproduce the synaptic pathways that got me to this answer on two-dimensional paper. In a future society, or with unlimited funding which may involve experiments on lower primates and teachers, I hope that, one day, this may be possible.

Q: Polly has a photo album of 48 pages which takes 10 photos on each page. If she has filled the first and last pages, how many more photos can she fit into the album?
A: "Photographs"? What a quaint, old-fashioned idea. The answer is 460, because my dad says so.

Q: Which number under 50 is a common multiplier of 6, 7 and 14?
A: x=[a(sin y)-by+z/e]/c where y exists in a parallel dimension and z is travelling at the speed of light, c.
It follows that: y=x(tan z)a/2x+z(cos a) where x tends towards entropy.
Simplifying the terms: "What do you get when you multiply eight and six?" = 42.

"Dad, you're such a smart b-word".

With any luck, Scaryduckling will never ask me again.

Top Tip!

Builders! When you get sacked from a job because of your shoddy work and unrealistic demands, it's best not to allow your harpy of a wife to follow your former clients around in your recently-acquired-on-credit Land Rover Discovery. It's crap, and makes her look a bit mental.

Dear South West Trains

Dear South West Trains

When a train - let us say last night's 1857 Brighton-Reading service - is running a mere ten minutes late, it is perhaps best not to terminate that service at, say, Basingstoke, stranding your fare-paying customers on platform four, thus allowing the return service to run on time and to make your performance statistics look good.

This is mainly because there may be passengers on that train who have paid good money to be taken to Reading, who may not be, in the main, completely pleased to find themselves stranded short of their destination in what can best be described as sub-arctic temperatures for the best part of an hour.

The guard informed me that a network controller had decided that because there were "so few" customers requiring the service to Reading, the train would terminate early and make good the ten minutes lost to the timetable. In doing so, South West Trains managed to inconvenience myself and other customers by more than an hour. I'm sure there's some twisted logic in there which I, a mere customer, am not privy. Well done.

The station manager, train driver and guard were all very sorry and frankly embarrassed by the company's actions, but platitudes do not make the trains run on time, nor make up for my late arrival at work. Someone, somewhere needs to be taught that treating customers - even ones they cannot see from their control room - like something stuck to the bottom of their shoe is perhaps A Bad Thing To Do.

Yours, Scary

Neatly precised by Ionicus, who has qualifications in prose and hardly any pictures of a naked Carol Smillie:

Dear cunts
Fuck you and your fucking trains.
Love,
Scary

I think I'll stick to the original.


Shagger

David "Shagger" Blunkett - where do you start with this excuse for a man? I'm not going to take the piss out of his disability - anyone can kick a guide dog when it's down - but the writing's on the wall for his political career. In huge red, six foot high letters. With a handy braille translation.

But when a cabinet minister is caught shagging a married woman, gets her pregnant - possibly giving birth to a whole tribe of Mini Blunketts - how is it, according to The Sun, the woman's fault when she goes back to her husband for forgiveness? After all, any politician caught up to his balls in trouble has done the decent thing. Even Cecil Parkinson.

The merest whiff of shagging about was enough to see off Boris Johnson, and poor old Paddy Ashdown dropped his trousers and was exiled to Bosnia in return. However, if there is nothing more vengeful, less honourable than an enraged New Labourite, Shagger Blunkett's hissed "Stop harrassing me" when doorstepping journalists managed a whole two questions of him on the affair doesn't bode well for the future of a free press.

And what of the Filipino maid business, with the sight of a Home Secretary launching an inquiry into his own behaviour, which will, naturally, absolve him of any blame? If I'd have got involved with fiddling the books for the Au Pair, I'd at least have made sure she was a looker.

Speaking as a repentant shagger, my message to Blunkett is simple - if you don't like it up you, then don't stick it up her. A bit late for that, isn't it?

I do, however, look forward to seeing Shagger chaining himself to the railings outside Buckingham Palace as part of a Fathers 4 Justice stunt.

On Hunting

On Hunting

Now that they've finally gone and banned hunting, I can already see a giant loophole that you could drive a pack of dogs through. Any huntmaster worth his salt would be wise to exploit such a glaring ommission should this *cough* fine country tradition of chinless wonders shouting "Tally Ho!" and killing things continue into the new millennium.

The law bans hunting with dogs - what's to stop any hunt using the three months they've got got to train up other animals to do the job?

Cats: But only if they can be arsed, and if there's a scratchy pole and a saucer of something at the end.

Piranha: Imagine the results if you could drive a fox toward a river - carnage enough to bring joy to any watching member of the Royal Family.

Lions: Might be a bit tricky, but I firmly believe that the Longleat Hunt will clear up on this one.

Killer Whales: A system of pulleys and milk floats is a sure-fire winner if these blood-thirsty bastards are anything to go by.

Japanese Spider Crabs: Six feet across, armour-plated, bullet-proof, invincible. If this one comes off, it'll be the Terminator of the countryside.

Penguins: By cunningly tying a fish onto the back of any fox you meet, a well-trained pack of penguins will provide hours of sport and knockabout comedy that'd make any hunting trip a day to remember. The only problem is being cunning enough to tie said fish to the foxes, who are, in fact, known for their cunning. Might be a bit difficult.

Other Foxes: Specially bred Judas foxes, dressed up in sexy lingerie, luring sex-starved males to their doom. How cunning is that?

Dogs and Cats! Living Together!

Dogs and Cats! Living Together!

I can't be the only person in the world disturbed by the fact that George W Bush hasfinally interested himself in the Northern Ireland peace process, with a phone call to the not-barking-mad-at-all DUP leader Ian Paisley.

Aside from a mutual interest in burning heretics, I can't imagine for a moment what the pair had to talk about.

The only parallel I can think of right now is that of the Keyholder and the Gatekeeper from Ghostbusters meeting up, paving the way for Gozer the Destroyer to walk the Earth, smiting the wailing millions in the shape of Gerry Adams.

We're doomed, aren't we?

Octopus: Fairground woe

Octopus

We rode the Octopus.

These days it would be seen as a fairground ride for whimps, but back then it a test of hardness to the youth of Twyford as the funfair made its twice yearly visit to the village.

The big question was "How long could you stay on?" It was a trial by g-force that lasted as long as your money did, until you were thrown off or you could take it no more. Stories were told of those who managed five, six, ten rides in a row and hardly needing hospital treatment at all.

Melanie (known as Melon-y for two reasons I cannot even begin to express here) looked well set for a mammoth ride. With a wink to the ride operator, she was allowed to stay on for as long as she wanted, and every time the ride finished, she dipped into what seemed a bottomless purse for another fare and another ride on the swirling behemoth.

Quite a crowd built up underneath. Not simply because the entire fair consisted of a whole four rides and every bugger and their dog had had enough of the merry-go-round, the dodgems and the other whirly-round thing whose name escapes me and wanted a go on the Octopus - word of Mel's impending triumph was getting around. She had been in flight for the best part of 45 minutes, and records were being set.

It was rumoured that one year, car eight hadn't been bolted on properly and it had flown off at the top of its arc, killing some friend-of-a-friend's aunt as it plunged into a nearby back garden. Mel - Cthulhu save her - was in car eight. Surely history wouldn't repeat?

We watched in awe as the ride started up again. Somebody was keeping count, and great cheers went up everytime our heroine hove into view. Round and round went the bloody great wheel, up and down went the cars, spinning the occupants this way and that in a dizzying dance to thumping rock music and flashing lights.

"Hey Mel! What's the weather like up there?"

"YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARCH!!!!!"

Raining.

She could have least waited until she was round the back, or on the bottom of a swing. But no, car eight was at its highest point, right above our heads as Mel's stomach decided enough was enough and the words "projectile vomiting" entered my vocabulary for the first time in my young life.

Half digested hotdog, candy floss and cheap cider flew in a graceful arc and rained down on the attendant crowds to shrieks of great woe and gnashing of teeth. This, unfortunately, unleashed a domino effect of vomiting, as those who had also been overdoing it on the supermarket own-brand cider, junk food sourced from at least one named animal and consecutive rides on the Octopus decided to join in with the chorus of Rolf and Huey.

I've been on some rough Irish Sea ferry crossings, but the devastation below the Octopus that night made them look like a ride on the boating lake at Regent's Park. Days of chunder, indeed.

As the ride came to a halt, Mel wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and with a nod to the ride operator said "Again, please."

The next day, the fair left and the seagulls came.

Rules of Blogging no.23

Rules of Blogging no.23

"Never blog whilst drunk."

Look, we had a wonderful leaving do for six of the lovliest ladies who ever filed video tapes for the Corporation, one thing led to another, and the White Horse in Emmer Green is now the legal owner of the contents of my wallet.

And you want a Thursday vote-o, even if I can barely focus on the keyboard, do you? If you insist, then.

Just to be different, I have selected a random line from the six Scary stories available and you may cast your vote for any one of these. Simple, eh, and what could possibly go wrong?

1. A domino effect of vomiting
2. "But usually he's got clothes on."
3. I think I might have said "Fuck" at some stage
4. Teenage boys in uniform
5. And they wouldn't even let me finish "Buster Gonad" either
6. "Look, just fuck off, will you?"

Vote! Vote! Vote! But what do I care? I'll have a hangover by the time I see this page again.

Ten ...err.. Eleven things I'd like to be remembered by

Ten ...err.. Eleven things I'd like to be remembered by

Life is short and fame is fleeting. If I want to get into the next life as something decent (I'm hoping to come back as a girls' bicycle saddle), I'd better start working on my account at the Bank of Karma. Looks like I've got a bit of work to do...

1. The unfortunate incident of the prime ministerial wedgie. Well - I never knew she wore incontinence pants.

2. That three-up with Mother Teresa and Princess Di. Before they were famous.

3. My camerawork on the moon landings.

4. My Royal Warrant: "Supplier of live rodents to HM the Queen".

5. The Nobel Prize for eradicating the scourge of Dhobi's Itch from the underpants of the world.

6. Composing the ice cream van jingle that inspired "Do they know it's Christmas".

7. Writing the infamous last episode of the Flintstones, where evolution and a hungry sabre-toothed tiger finally catch up with Fred.

8. Author of the best-selling pamphlet "What to do when you return from 'travelling' in India - a gap-year student's guide". Full text: "Shut up about it, you boring cunt."

9. Brought the word "flunge" into common usage.

10. The Victoria Cross awarded for running into the middle of Cornwall, shouting "You're a bunch of in-bred wankers!" and escaping with my life.

11. The tracking down, chastising, torturing and killing of those behind the new South West Trains timetable, leaving their broken bodies rotting on the streets of Fallujah. Defence: justifiable homocide.

*The wobble of flesh that protrudes between the waistband of hipster trousers and the hem of a too-short t-shirt. Barely acceptable in normal circumstances, rendered X-certificate outside a fish and chip shop at the seedy end of town.

Irrational Fears

Irrational Fears

Many kids are scared of monsters under the bed, ogres and bogeymen lurking in wardrobes and the cupboard under the stairs. Some of these unfortunates have even given a name to their fear as the screams ring out deep into the night. In Scaryduckling's case, it is Wigglewig.

"Wigglewig coming." Two words to strike at the heart of a nervous little girl that won't sleep with the light off, wouldn't go upstairs without adult company. Thank God, then, for the downstairs toilet.

The Great Fear of Wigglewig got to the point that a good night's sleep could noly be guaranteed with the re-training of Scaryduckling's favourite friend - Robber Rabbit - as Kung Fu Bunny, a third dan capable of fighting off the Wigglewig menace. He may look cute and fluffy, but he'll kick your face off for a carrot given half the chance.

And the source of her fear? The monster that had Scaryduckling screaming in the night, the mooncalf that still has her unable to sleep without a night light? Wigglewig is the toilet brush. And Christ on a bike, I don't blame her.

Mine was buttons. Going to the panto at Christmas was a nightmare.

Just your regular everyday hero, ma'am

Just your regular everyday hero, ma'am

Hooray for me! I just saved our hamster (the evil-hearted Ryan Minogue) from dying from hypothermia after he'd been left out in the shed for too long.

The poor little fella had been shunted out of the house for the summer while building site chaos ensued indoors. Then it turned cold, and I was presented with what appeared to be a furry little golf ball.

I had to warm up his fluffy little body by sticking him in a tube up my ar...err... blowing on him until he came to.

And then the little turd bit my finger because I'd woken him out of hibernation. Serves me right for feeding him after midnight.

I am utterly pissed off with the whole affair, as it happens.

I was rather looking forward to a good viking funeral.

The Great Chair Race

The Great Chair Race

I'm old enough to remember the days when schools used to have chairs made out of wood. You know, the brown stuff that grows on trees. You know, squirrels. None of that cheapo metal-and-plastic rubbish - our school had top quality wooden seating, lovingly crafted by prisoners of war in the 1940s.

After decades of misuse, it was pretty safe to say that our chairs were falling to pieces, and with Thatcher stealing everything from milk to library books from our schools, Berkshire County Council simply couldn't afford to replace them. Every lesson was like Russian roulette as students gingerly placed their bottoms onto their seats in case it finally gave up the ghost and left them sprawling on the floor to hoots of laughter.

Those of us in the know would attend lessons with a screwdriver, tightening or loosening screws as necessary. After all, you didn't want to be the one with matching bruises on both arse and ego.

But it wasn't all fear and loathing in the classroom. By sitting facing backwards on one of these wooden chairs, and working the seat-back like a rowing machine, we found you could walk the chair across the finely polished floors, reaching terrifying speeds if the chair was knackered enough and you had muscles on your forearms like Schwarzenegger.

We were kids. We were competitive. When two or more are gathered in the name of dossing about, you're going to have a race.

Wet breaks are great, because you've got whole classes to yourself without any form of adult supervision. Any teacherless moment can be used for the latest round of the World Championship of chair racing - the aim being to hold a race in every room in the school and beat the crap out of the person who wins the most.

I have seen with my own eyes, in Room 4 of the Old School as rain trickled down the windows, all the desks pushed back and a dozen drivers going hell-for-leather for the blackboard.

I have heard with my own ears the sound of a portakabin falling to pieces as a not-so-secret race meeting got out of control.

It couldn't last.

There we were, just before the end of the school day, waiting for our tutor to come and fill out the register, and we would be free for another day. Just time enough for Ju-Vid and I to race down the gap between the desks in round 27 of the World Championship, then.

Go! Working our chair backs like crazy, we skated across the wooden floor to the finish line where Ernie waited with a makeshift chequered flag we'd knocked up out of an old towel whipped from the lost property basket.

Neck and neck, the crowd roared us on, and girls rolled their eyes to the ceiling.

Two things happened.

One: "What the bloody hell's going on here then?"

Oh, spoons. Mrs Gibson.

Two: SNAP!

Oh, spoons. Ju-Vid.

He landed with a clatter at Mrs Gibson's feet, performing a neat half twist to enable him to see right up her skirt. He was still clutching the back of his chair which had snapped off in his hands, all the evidence she needed to convict the two of us.

As you'd expect, deathly silence. The only movement was Ernie quietly concealing the chequered flag in his school bag.

Mrs Gibson was normally, friendly, quiet, reserved, blonde and the owner of a number of tight jumpers. I think the description I am scrabbling for her on this occasion would be "fucking ape-shit ballistic".

Caught like a pair of Treens in a disabled space cruiser, Ju-Vid and I were marched off to Mr Marcus, the world's hairiest man and middle school head. We were forced to confess our involvement in the illicit chair-racing cartel, which was apparantly destroying the morality of the school thanks to small quantities of tuck money changing hands in side bets.

Marcus sat on the corner of his desk, legs akimbo in a shiny Man-at-Burtons suit, hair spilling out of every orifice, as he laid down the law to the pair of us. We swore he put socks down the front of his trousers. Disturbing was not the word for it.

By way of punishment, we were to spend every day after school for a whole two weeks tightening up the screws on every single chair in the establishment, and hammering home wooden wedges to ensure that wobbliness was a thing of the past.

Not so Marcus's desk, which collapsed one afternoon as he perched on one corner whilst teaching geography. I swear on my dog's life I had nothing to do with it.

The day the plastic chairs arrived was a black one in the history of our school.

A travesty of the democratic process

A travesty of the democratic process

I'm a bit busy with legal people this week, so in lieu of the Thursday vote-o, I have asked regular readers Joy and Ionicus to select a tale of mirth and woe for me. Spurning offers of sexual favours, a low-denomination coin was flipped and we have decided on The Great Chair Race.

So mote it be.

Brushes with Fame

The height of my worldwide fame came at the end of the Cold War when I was interviewed at length by an extremely hairy camera crew from Russian Television news.

It was a report on the state news programme "Vesti" about Russian news media and the problems it faces in a commercial world (total daily viewing fixures: about sixty squillion, most of those being desperate single women, if my spam folder is anything to go by).

I was captioned "Aleksandr Ivanovich Kolmanov, British Spy".

Well, that's just bloody typical of The Service, isn't it? No bastard bothered to tell me I'd been recruited. I gather that's the way they do things these day - on a "need-to-know" basis.

I have yet to be issued with my Walther PPK and magnetic wristwatch that makes young ladies' clothes fall off. However, that Rosa Kleb keeps giving me the come-to-bed eyes, the filthy old tart.

So, instead of vote-o-ing why not tell us how (in)famous you are.

The Diary of RSM Albert O'Balsam, DSC and Bar

The Diary of RSM Albert O'Balsam, DSC and Bar

Having just emerged from up some mountain where he claims to have been fighting some unnamed foe, this last bastion of the British Empire, Regimental Sergeant Major to Her Majesty's 13th Goat Brigade Albert O'Balsam DSC and Bar, is now able to reveal his unique experiences of great savagery, his conversion to an obscure branch of Christianity, the secrets of the "Craft" and nubile Swedish former virgins via these very pages. We are, indeed, not worthy:

"I arrive here, exhausted, after a long trek over the mountains of the Hindu Kush and the north-west face of Konnie Huq. Through ice, snow and gale have I travelled merely because the bus services up there insist on a concept these foreign johnnies refer to as 'exact fare only please'.

It has taken me thirty-seven years to cover a mere three hundred yards, thanks, mainly to the virgins who have thrown their nubile young bodies at me in order to attain salvation in the eyes of the Lord. Salvation, that can only be achieved through what what we, the initiates to the secret ways of the "Craft" refer to as 'The Sacred Ceremony of Three-Up.'

I gather other, less enlightened branches of the church, know this most saintly of practices as 'a damn good spit-roasting', and it is lucky that I pilfered the One, True Strap-on of Thimppu from the body of a recently expired, and extremely happy Man of God, what with me being the only male in those remote mountain parts.

Some may say that I have dallied on my trek, enjoying the company of sixteen and seventeen year old Swedish ladies in expensive lingerie, but nothing can be further from the truth. It has been Hell, HELL, I tell you, and I arrive a man broken in both spirit and body.

And now we turn to today's scripture from the Book of Razzle, chapter XXVII, verses 1 to 69: 'Dear Fiesta, you won't believe the most amazing thing that happened to me the other day...'"

More of this filth at Robber Rabbit

With thanks to Col Horace Streeb Greebling, DSO (no relation)

The Curse of the Black Finger

The Curse of the Black Finger - A Catharsis Special

Kids! Be careful when carrying out DIY in the comfort of your own home. Better still, get a grown-up to do it for you instead. However, when you pay large quantities of money to some lazy, chain-smoking, tea-guzzling bullshitter to build an extension on your house, you would be best advised to go to any reasonable means short of crapping through their letterbox to ensure they finish the job.

This may well prevent them from fucking off when they get bored, leaving you to finish the job yourself, crushing your mouse-dobbing finger under a two-pound lump hammer, leaving a mess reminiscent of a car crash in a wine gum factory.

Speaking as a minor internet celebrity, this finger is the key to my fame and fortune, and its subsequent loss of use (I am now officially "special") means that I only alternative is to trawl ebay for a head-dobber. Damn you lazy, chain-smoking, tea-guzzling bullshitter!

Builders! When you decide to leave your customers in the lurch by fucking off before the end of a job, make sure that you haven't gone and signed any sort of binding contract, allowing your black-fingered client to a) write firm yet legally sound letters asking for restitution and b) whup your arse through the courts until it hurts.

And when you go whinging to a random solicitor about it, do make sure you show him said binding contract before he rattles out a letter threatening your client with all kinds of financial and legal nastiness. When he finally gets to see the contract, he will, in all probability, laugh as much as I did.

Have I forgot anything? Ah yes. Doors. When you cut holes for doors a) don't use a sledgehammer because you'll bring the whole fucking wall down and b) don't make the hole exactly the same size as the wood because you CAN'T GET THE FUCKING THING OPEN. Three words: Fawlty. Fucking. Towers.

And there is a subtle difference between "retired stone mason in the final throes of Parkinsons" and "professional plasterer" that even I noticed after two days trying to skim one wall.

Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you the Sale of Goods and Services Act 1982, and long may she sail.

And - relax...

Arse-covering corner: This blog entry is the personal opinion of the author and is in no way legally binding.

Bank woe

Bank woe

It's Monday morning, you're in a hurry to get to the station, but you've also got to pay some money into the bank, because you don't fancy paying out another twenty quid for a computer-generated overdraft letter.

The Gods of Bank smile upon you. There are only three people in front of you.

Doom! The Gods of Bank like a good laugh as much as the next deity, and it's not often that you see a wheelbarrow full of small change in a bank.

Alas, all three in the queue appear to be the socially and financially inept change booth ladies from local amusement arcades, cashing up for the entire summer.

Ah yes, as much fun as you can eat for a sackful of 2p pieces. I even won a nice key ring in the shape of TV's Wellard from EastEnders, that's how classy these establishments are. And these are the only places in the world were people get genuinely exicted to win a knock-off cuddly Pokemon on one of those crane machines.

Remind me - why, exactly did I think moving to a seaside resort would be A Good Thing?

Al-Falluja

Relief agencies are being denied access to the civilians of Falluja by US armed forces.

Says an American spokesman [Marine Colonel Mike Shupp, you too your name is going in ze book] : "There is no need to bring supplies in because we have supplies of our own for the people."

In other words, they'd rather the Red Crescent [Red Cross] were not involved.

By happy coincidence, Baghdad Airport has just re-opened, once more allowing foreign journalists and observers into Iraq. It closed just before the Falluja offensive kicked-off.

Something to hide, Uncle Sam?

The Kate Winslet Story

The Kate Winslet Story

Get your clothes on Winslet, I'm a married man

Ah, Kate, how do we love you? It's a well-known fact that Berkshire-born actress Kate Winslet has got her baps out in every single film she has worked on, including the ones where the script stipulated that she remain fully clothed, the filthy slattern. But that's what you get when you come from a part of Reading where nudity is virtually obligatory in her part of town. They've even built a block of flats in her honour down the Oxford Road, with a removable roof.

In fact, on the cusp of fame, she was a well-known face in the *cough* lively *cough* west of Reading, where sane men know not to walk and the knocking shop on the Oxford Road hasn't even bothered to disguise itself as a respectable establishment. It was clear that La Winslet was going to be a huge, huge star despite her habits of swearing like a trooper and smoking like a chimney.

Well, I didn't know, did I?

I had an absolutely valid 100 per cent cast-iron excuse for going down that end of Reading that Thursday evening.

I was buying pornography.

A young man's got needs, and the Oxford Road has a number of newsagents with impressive top shelves catering for just about every pecadillo and perversion known to humankind. All strictly legal, you understand. And this month's Big and Fruity, the magazine for greengrocer fetishists and lovers of root vegetables had just come out.

Me, I was after a copy of Fiesta and this week's Auto Trader. Honest.

I always went to the same shop, a) because of the astounding selection and b) it was right next to a side street which was good for a quick getaway should the worst come to the worst and people started looking at you in a funny way in the midst of your jazz purchase.

Scene set? Good. The trouser itch activatedand wearing my best flasher mac, I headed for the Oxford Road to make a small purchase. The coast clear, I dived into Mr Khan's emporium of fags, booze and smut and scanned the upper shelves (yes - plural) for suitable one-handed reading material. And Lordy, he knew how to hide the specialist stuff from view.

It would be several minutes before I could locate this month's edition of "Melons" and head for the counter. And I would have made it too, if it wasn't for the fact that the act of pulling this celebration of the juxaposition of fruit and incredibly naked female flesh from the shelf and making for the till hadn't have brought me into direct collision with a Hollywood starlet, popping out to the corner shop for twenty Lambert and Butler.

In normal, comedic circumstances, you'd fully expect an explosion of pornography, the centre-spread fluttering to the floor between us. Happily, this didn't happen.

I merely prodded her in the left tit with a scud mag. A tit which, one day, would be painted by Leonardo di Caprio. The bastard.

"Ooh," she said. Unfortunately, this was not followed by the line "It's so hot in here", which, I gather, is obligatory in certain genres of filmed entertainment. "Ooh!"

"I'm terribly sorry, Miss Winslet" I said, "I appear to have assaulted you in a rather tender area with a partially-folded adult publication. I'm related to a doctor, perhaps you'd allow me to see to the wound." Which came out like this:

"Gneep."

I dropped my spoils back amongst the motor magazines and fled, heading up the side-street towards the handily parked Scary-mobile. Leaning against the door, I breathed a huge sigh of relief following my brush with disaster. She had a stare that could sink ships, and would one day do so.

And there she was, following me up the road, cancer stick between her lips, puffing away in the provocative manner that only an habitually naked star of stage and screen can manage.

Sid James stirred inside me.

As she passed your humble scribe toward Winslet Mansions, she gave me a pitiful smirk.

"Gneep."

I don't know about you, but I think I might still be in with a chance there.

Witty Thursday vote-o headline

Jings! It's the William MacGonagall memorial Thursday vote-o!

It's a little known fact that Palestinian leader Yasser Arafat can trace his family roots back exactly one generation to a tenement block in Glasgow. Alas, "Jimmy" McArafat, ye shall ne'er know freedom for your beloved Scotch people. The noo.

Ah, what the hell, there's always the Thursday McVote-o to look forward to. And as I'm feeling particularly generous, there's a whole seven stories to choose from:

The Celebrity Collection

* The Elton John story - Mary had a little lamb
* The Kate Winslet story - And it was always gruntin'
* The Duke of Kent story - So she tied it to a five-bar gate
* The Uri Geller story - And kicked the little ...umm... runt in

Scaryduck Gold

* Octopus - I hope you people realise how difficult it is
* Diet Club - to think of funny crap to stick here every week
* The Great Chair Race - Send. More. Fish.

Vote, sir, or FEAR THE WELLO!

First date woe

Scary's First Date Woe

A promise is a promise, so here you go:

Thrown together like two fishing boats in a storm (or rather, two minor civil servants in charge of counting the UK's population of cows), your hero found himself somewhat romantically attracted to the womanly charms of Ms A, administrative assistant and underling-in-charge of the official Cow Counting Department brown felt-tip pens.

I'll be first to admit that we didn't get on from the start, our first meetings essentially involved her stealing my much-coveted window desk, and my standing on her foot in a lift, acts that still have not been forgiven seventeen years on.

But cruel fate kept throwing us together and after a long hard day of counting cows and recording the figures in brown felt-tip, it was suggested that we might like to share some quiet, intimate time together. And I hardly stared at her ladybumps, at all.

Desperate for somewhere to take the lovely Ms A for a first date in the cultural desert that is the town of Reading, I took her to the flicks to see that delightful romantic comedy, Platoon.

Blood, guts, gore, young men in the prime of life having vital parts of their anatomies blown off, it was the grimmest slab of celluloid I have ever paid money to see. Apart from Spaceballs.

After that meeting her parents would be a doodle. I marched into their living room where Luther Vandross was playing loudly on the stereo and announced the immortal opening gambit to her mother: "What's this crap then?"

Only Mrs A's favourite performing artist. Ah. Still not forgiven, etc.

Having insulted her mother in the most spectacular fashion on our first meeting, I tried to act utterly cool and non-plussed by the whole affaire de Madamoiselle A to my drinking buddies by describing her as "a bit of a dog". This being a phrase they were only too pleased to pass on at a later date, with hilarious results. Still not forgiven.

We are now married.

More?: An almost, but not quite, entirely serious Scary post on Robber Rabbit. And Lordy! Pengor's begging for money again.

TWAT Update

TWAT update

Joan Collins shut your big, fat whinging UKIP-supporting gob. It's no use complaining that you keep getting singled out for security searches whenever you travel.

It's people like you that the authorities should be keeping a special eye on. Perhaps, and this is just a guess, you should stop dressing like a terrorist whenever you go to the airport. Don't you realise there's a war on? The world's war president said so.

I've read Glamorama - a Brett Easton Ellis tale of global terrorism, where the protagonists live above suspicion thanks you their lives as international jet-setting supermodels. It's also got the filthiest sex scene of any book ever - Joan could do better than showing it to her sister in the hope that she might finally see the light and give up writing. And Joan should also note that it is listed as non-fiction*.

Any road up, we all know by now that Al Qaeda is a myth concocted by US hawks to instill fear and loathing on a terrified population - which means that somebody famous has got to be strip-searched in public to keep The War Against Terror in the news, and it might as well be you, Joan.

You don't hear David Bowie complaining, and he gets the latex glove treatment every time he boards a 747. As a matter of fact, he makes a scene if he doesn't get his usual "personal treatment".

If you ask me, we should treat all travelling celebrities with the utmost suspicion. In this age of global satellite links, there should be no reason for anyone famous to travel anywhere except between Notting Hill, Gstaad and the old peoples' home they dumped their mum the second she became embarrassing.

And if they do feel the need to go anywhere, it should be under a universal "Don't You Know Who I Am" passport the size of a novelty birthday card, entitling the holder to free drugs, booze and a joyless, lubricant-free bunk-up with Kate Moss.

Kate Moss**, you'll be pleased to learn will get special supermodel treatment under the new regime. She can fuck herself.

* May not be entirely true.
** "The world's stupidest person" - Popbitch

The Saga Continues

The Saga Continues

File under "Wrong".

Broke, and desperate to take a holiday that did not include Spanis beaches, I once went on an old peoples' coach tour of Switzerland and Italy. There were a whole four young people on the bus. One of these was the driver, who managed to shag a different granny every night.

Caught en flagrante behind the pedalos on Lake Lugano, witnesses tell of a woman of advanced years to playing a solo on his pink oboe while he planned the next day's route in a road atlas.

We ran a book on when he would get round to the incredibly fat woman who took up two seats. He held out until Milan, the classy devil.

It was like predatory grooming, only with wrinklies. I was disgusted at his lack of loyalty, hammering away at their sandpaper-dry flanges, then discarding them with nothing to look forward to but their own funerals.

But now, I'm rapidly approaching the same age group and thinking envious thoughts such as "Get in there!", "Where do I sign up?" and "It's community service, isn't it?"

But then, I realised that this is Daniel O'Donnell's job, and I felt ill again. And strangely aroused.

The Sarah Cracknell out of Saint Etienne story

The Sarah Cracknell out of Saint Etienne story

Following my recent post about Jimmmy Hill's pecker, I feel I should even things up with the time I saw a pop star's front bottom under exceptionally trying circumstances. It's only fair.

You don't turn down a freebie to Reading Festival, especially if it involves a backstage pass, allowing you to ignore all sorts of self-important people.

Every now and then, the rich and famous would emerge from their champagne-flavoured cocoon to go and see their mates play on the main stage. This involved negotiating a rather small gate "manned", for the want of a better word, by a pair of extremely hairy bouncers, whose sole mission in life was to ensure that the great unwashed remained on the right side of the fence.

I forget which band was on stage, but a large number of celebrities felt the need to get round the front and frug away like mad, drug-addled dervishes to the vogueish young sounds that make today's youth do the hippy-hippy shake. Or something.

Suddenly, the heavens opened and there followed a rainstorm of biblical proportions. These may have been hip young sounds, but the massed celebs weren't going to get their 501s wet if they could help it. Oh no, there was a lovely, dry VIP area backstage with all the marijuana they could eat.

Cue massed scramble for the tiny gate, where the gorillas slowly checked each and every VIP pass to cries of "Don't you know who I am?"

It was at that point that much of the talent had had enough and started to scale the ten foot fence that separated the plebs from the world of celebrity. There was an unseemly scramble as the rain pelted down on muddy VIPs, presenting a scene that would not be out of place on Takeshi's Castle.

Someone pointed out to me what could only be the delightful singer of the popular beat combo Saint Etienne scaling the fence in an energetic fashion, wearing a mini dress which left absolutely nothing to the imagination.

She had obviously either got dressed in a hurry that morning, or had forgotten to pack any underwear for the weekend. She could have caught her death.

Any road up, teetering on top of a ten foot high fence revealing your parts to the world is hardly the height of sophistication.

Mmmm.... Brazilian.....

With a final heave, she and her initimate particles disappeared from view to a large cheer from the spectating hundreds.

Yes, dear reader, I can honestly say that I have seen Sarah Cracknell's crack, and I shall go to hell for it.

The only vote-o that counts

The only vote-o that counts

In these dark, dark days, we mere mortals need to be reminded that we are on a higher evolutionary plane that our so-called betters. Celebrities may have all the column inches and the money, but this is due entirely to a genetic flaw that renders them completely unable to go to the toilet without getting the hired help to wipe their bottom for them.

To recognise the superiority of homo sapiens over homo fuckwitus I present a short series of Scary Stories based on my limited encounters with the cult of celebrity, which will also be serialised in fortcoming editions of Hello! magazine*. Naturally, if you've got any tales of celebrity encounters, please feel free to share.

* The Elton John story - "Boys! I must have boys! And baby oil!"
* The Kate Winslet story - "Going down like the Titanic"
* The Duke of Kent story - "It's Cockney rhyming slang, see?"
* The Uri Geller story - "And that's the only reason you can justify a Tabasco enema"
* The Sarah Cracknell out of Saint Etienne story which involves an actual first-hand account of genuine celebrity nudity

I could also recount the time a John Redwood radio interview ended with a brief car park scuffle and the mysterious disappearance of his parliamentary pen, but it's been so embellished with every re-telling, that since his re-invention as an entirely charming shagger of research assistants it's hardly even worth writing up. The manky old devil.

*May not be true, at all.

Stupid things to do if you get bored today

1. Call 0800 587 6587, ask to join the UK Independence Party and insist on paying in Euros. You may wish to inform them - if they haven't already hung up - that at the current exchange rate, they should be charging E28.75 to your credit card.

2. Call 020 7822 4100, and tell The Sun of your figging parties with Stan Collymore and Charlotte Church. They'd have kittens.

3. Call 08705 900 200** and ask those lovely Labour Party folks to pass your congratulations to Tony for helping George get re-elected. If, by some chance, they refuse, you may wish to call Tony's Sedgefield constituency office on 01429 882202.

4. Call 00 1 330 490 4000*** ask offer similar congratulations to Mr Diebold and his marvellous mechanical voting machines. And while you're in the US, dial 00 1 713 759 2600 and get Mr Halliburton to pass his congrats on to Dick. Fantastic job all round, boys! The embassies of Canada on 202-682-1740, Mexico (202 728 1600) or Cuba (202 797-8518) will be able to answer any political asylum questions that may arise.

5. ???

6. Profit!

By this stage, the security services should have a file on you half an inch thick. Congratulations!

** Calls charged at National rate
*** International rates apply

Shit. Shit. Shit.

Shit I

GaaaaH! Damn you Nestle!

I've just realised why they no longer spell out the letters Y - O - R - K - I - E on the squares of Yorkie bars any more. The bastards have reduced the numbers of blocks of chocolate from six to five.

I suggest they change the name of my favourite guilty chocolate confection to "Nestle are a bunch of thieving baby-killing cock-heads". Then I'd end up with a bastard huge bar. Sorted.

Shit II

"There's only one language these people understand," is a bit of a standing motto of mine, "Crap through their letterbox!" Regular readers will also know that the arse/mail box interface is a regular, scatalogical theme on this site.

At last, the days of getting caught by the plod, trousers round your ankles, with your bare arse pressed against your sworn enemy's front door, are now over, thanks to the wonderful people at Fecalgram.

For a mere $24.95, a freshly squeezed turd will wing its way across the U S of A to the member of the Supreme Court of your choice.

Alas, on reading the FAQ, I find that poop-by-mail is still illegal in America (despite the fact that is is covered by the First Amendment, or something) and these are, in fact, faux turds.

Ah well, back to the cold, cold nights standing on the orange box and the all-sweetcorn diet.

Shit III

Every country gets the leadership it deserves. Oh God, America, you really fell for it, didn't you?

For those of you who share the world's despair, you may wish to consider a move to Canada.

Election Latest

Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse split over Kerry endorsement
Dan Prick, Foreign Correspondent

Leading portent of the end of the world, Famine, has been sensationally dumped by the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse over his endorsement of Democratic challenger Senator John Kerry in today's US presidential election, reports Dan Prick.

"It's true," said the former Horseman from the kitchen of 'Fifteen', the restaurant he jointly owns with celebrity chef Jamie Oliver, "we had a bit of a falling-out."

The reason for the split is a simple one, Famine told our reporter in his exclusive first interview since he left the phenomenally successful foursome.

"I can see their point. The lads had a great four years working with Bush, but when I look at America, I see nothing but fat people. Where do I start?

"Kerry's people have promised me a return to the dust-bowl years of the Depression. I'd vote for that, they were great days.

"Bush couldn't bring about the end of the world if he tried. He can't even spell 'apocalypse'."

Liberal Traitor

From their bustling headquarters in Langley, VA, Death, War and Pestilence told us a completely different story.

"We've never had it so good!" boomed War, "Bush is a war president, and he's promised us never-ending global conflict. And he's a great family guy as well."

"Famine's the kind of dangerous liberal traitor this great nation can do without," Death told us, "Bush is the one. I've harvested so many souls thanks to his outstanding presidency, it's got to be good for the economy. I'm paying less tax too - Kerry would put an end to all that."

In a ringing endorsement of Republican healthcare plans, Pestilence has nothing but praise for the President.

"He's letting AIDS run riot in Africa, and only the rich can afford life-saving medication. Why waste the Federal budget on spongers and foreigners? And those daughters of his - they're so HOT!"

Damnation

In order to maintain the accuracy of the biblical prophesies, the three remaining horsemen have moved quickly to recruit a new member, and have managed to tie up a valuable corporate sponsorship into the bargain.

"Four more years!" new recruit Dick Cheney told a rally in Damnation, Ohio, "though we probably won't need more than six months.

"The Halliburton Horsemen are ready to ride out for a stronger, safer, richer nation. God bless America!"

Asked if they had a message for their former collegue Famine, Death was typically blunt:

"We always had you as a weak, liberal, America-bashing LOSER! This is going to be the big one!"