Friday, July 30, 2004

Embarrassing Parents

Embarrassing Parents

OK, I'll admit it. I am an embarrassing parent. I will think nothing of doing the Badger Badger Badger dance in the school playground, or call my kids by their pet names in front of their friends. I also intend to continue this behaviour even when they are adults, and my daughter's wedding day will be marred by the unfortunate placing of a "Kick Me" sticker. You can't take me anywhere.

I would like, at this point, to blame my upbringing for this shocking state of affairs. My dad, bless him, was all Goon Shows and monsters, and I'm only continuing where he left off. But when I look back from the comfort of the twenty-first century, my family was comparitively sane. It's everybody else who had the nutters.

Cookie's parents were not mad. They were just trapped in a time-warp where every day was 1952. THey had a fantastic head-turning 1937 Austin Seven (top speed 35 mph if you got out and pushed), and their house was a monument to post-war optimism and the spirit of Protect and Survive. The radio always seemed to be tuned to "You and Yours" on Radio 4 and they made the best egg and chips in the world, providing the ration book was up to date. Lovely. Not mad.

John's dad was in a barbershop quartet. So was his mum. OK, hardly mad at all, and it kept them off the streets. Except when they practiced in the front garden, which was quite a few notches up the scale of English eccentrics.

Butler's mum was right off the scale. A rarity in 1970s suburbia - a single mum - she was hugely over-protective of her son, and would watch him like a hawk, net curtains twitching, and burst out of the house, armed with a yard-broom, if she thought play wasn't going his way. More than strange, she had a red porch light, and even adults played knock-and-run on her.

All I can say about the Skinners was that they had no net curtains and a pornographic oil-painting above the fire-place until the police made them stop.

Ernie, however, had the most embarrassing mum of them all. We all wanted to go round his house, but it was a rare, rare treat. Ernie's mum, you see, held no truck with the concept of "clothing", and would wonder around the house from morning till night as the Good Lord intended. Even - or especially - when there were people round. Ernie didn't invite many friends back to his house.

I only ever went round there once. Ernie's dad had brought a computer home from work. A huge, lunking PET machine with a processor the size of a washing machine and a green screen with the keyboard attached. It had about 2kB of memory, and you could pay Star Trek on it. It was Ernie's fourteenth birthday, so celebration plus computer meant a whole three mates round his house, and prayers offered that his old lady would cover up.

No chance.

"You boys want anything to eat?"

"Mn nng mnn gnf"

"OK mum"

"Nnn ffff gggg yyyy"

"Hey, Ern - your mum's in the nudd."

He rolled his eyes, just wanting the ordeal over with and led us to the kitchen.

A real, live naked lady. But, being Ernie's mum, it didn't count. There was an ordeal ahead - trying to request food without staring at her large, slightly sagging chest or the Black Forest between her legs.

"I've got some stuff in the freezer," she suggested, bending over and presenting us with a frightening view of her rear end and all the associated flanges.

"Hamburger," said Julian, speaking his mind, and that served him right for staring.

"And you, Scary?" she asked, turning round to present me with a face-full of heaving pink chest, dappled with goosebumps from the freezer's icy blast, nipples you could hang a hat from. I tried my hardest to look at her face.

OhGodDon'tStareAtHerTits OhGodDon'tStareAtHerTits OhGodDon'tStareAtHerTits

"Milk please," I said to the left one.


We were never invited back. Can't think why.

The partially-clothed Scaryduck Archive

Thursday, July 29, 2004

Food of the Gods


Food of the Gods

The following are officially tasty gorgeous:

* Jaffa Cakes
* Twiglets
* Heinz Cream of Tomato soup
* Licorice Allsorts
* Pepperami
* Pizza Hut deep pan Super Supreme pizza

Food of the Clods

The following are officially the work of Beelzebub:

* Turkish Delight
* Bombay Mix
* Smoky Bacon crisps
* Pot Noodle
* Cockles - never trust a food that looks and smells like ladies' parts.

Discuss at your bloated leisure.

There WILL be a Scary story tomorrow. Having left all my files at work, I have no idea which one it will be, however. Hang in there. Woe will be guaranteed. Mirth as well, if you're lucky. And next week - the full, dull lowdown on What I Did On My Holidays. With pictures. Loads and loads of pictures.

The Scaryduck Archive

Wednesday, July 28, 2004

A question of trust

A question of trust

"People you met on the internet?"

Lori's got a point. "People you met on the internet" are probably the most despised group in the history of mankind, ranking somewhere way below Nazis, paedophiles and people who voted for UKIP. In fact, they are probably a mixture of all three. Or Leslie Grantham, glopping over the Screwfix catalogue. A typical conversation with the spouse might go like this:

"I'm off down the pub tonight. I'm meeting a few friends."

"Who would they be then?"

"Oh, just friends."

"Which ones?"

"People I ...err... met on the internet."

"Right..." Visions of black magic, human sacrifice, the exchange of donkey porn and frank discussions on the merits of a lightly-oiled Sarah Beeney swim through her horrified mind.

Worse: "It's a project I'm working on."

"Oh yes..."

"Yeah" - rather too excitedly - "We've got these stickers that say ' Trapped in Sticker Factory - Send Help' and we..."

"Who are 'we'?"

"Me and ...err... some friends."


"People I met on the internet," which comes out with the same inflection as "People I met in prison".

This sort of conversation often ends with the damning "and that's why you were left on a doorstep." Next time I'm just going to say I'm meeting TV's Su Pollard and former Labour MP Tony Benn, or just start twitching uncontrollably whilst sharpening my best axe.

I'm sure we're all entirely sane. After all, we can still count "People who go speed dating" and "People who get excited by Big Brother" below us. Right?

The Scaryduck Archive

Tuesday, July 27, 2004

Soap, anyone?

Soap, anyone?

We have soap. Lots and lots of soap. Normal people return from France with all the booze, smokes and duty frees. We have soap.

Look, France is a marvellous country, and could be fantastic were it not for all those French people croding up the place.

I know it's a fantastic cliche, but - French People - try washing every know and then. You will be amazed at the difference, and you will not, in turn, be disgusted at the sight of Scary bowking while tucking into his lunch after experiencing an unexpected waft of French body odour.

And while your at it, get a sense of personal body space. I really, really enjoy being squashed up against your plump, sweaty body as part of a concept we English call "queueing". Couple this with m first point about soap, our trip to see The Fallen Madonna with ze Big Boobies by Van Klump was not a happy experience.

By way of revenge, we stole every bar of soap we could lay our hands on. It's not as if they were going to be used at all. The heavily armed customs guy was not impressed.

Pleased to see they've still got those hole-in-the-ground toilets. My aim is improving, but a word to the wise - don't try to use them when you've got a dicky gut, and you're squirting Brown Windsor Soup everywhere. Especially if you're down to your last pair of pants.

Photographic evidence of Mickey Mouse's arse will be supplied in due course. Hang in there.

The Scaryduck Archive. And soap.

Tuesday, July 20, 2004

Rules of the Blog

Rules of the Blog

You asked, you got. These rules are far from complete, and I would appreciate your input. The more pointless and draconian the better. A valuable cash prize for the best one! (see rule XXVII)

Rule I: My blog My blog My blog My blog My blog My blog My blog My blog My blog My blog My blog My blog My blog.

Rule II: No fucking swearing on my blog, you fucks.

Rule III: Everything written on this blog is 100 per cent truth, honest injun, even the bits I just made up.

Rule IV: Send more money.

Rule V: The webmaster reserves the right to delete, edit or alter user comments on the grounds of abuse, taste or decency. Or if I think I can get a cheap laugh.

Rule VI: Rule deleted for a cheap laugh.

Rule VII: Keep off the grass. No smoking. Mind the gap.

Rule XXVII: Prizes offered in competitions may not exist. This is particularly true if cold, hard cash is offered.

Rule LXIX: Beavis and Butt-Head impressions only at the discretion of the owner. This sucks, dude, what's on the other channel?


Monday, July 19, 2004

The Mission

The Mission

OK, I'll admit it. Part of our French itinery takes in Disneyland Paris, le grande pompt-de-pompt American trou de merde. It will be FUN and the happiest fucking place on Earth, for the sake of the ducklings, so help me.

To this end, I have a mission. It is important for my own sanity and for the good of Western civilisation and culture, and it shall be done. Whilst at Disneyland, I have untertaken to hit Mickey Mouse with a "Kick Me" sticker, AND get photographic evidence of the boot going into the rodent's butt. If I fail, I shall personally come round and cook dinner for each and every one of you*.

This is it. I WILL kick Bishop Brennan up the arse.

* Free dinner offer closes 19th October 1968, open only to residents of Brazzaville, Republic of Congo.

L'Archive Scarycanard

Friday, July 16, 2004

Filthy Dave

Filthy Dave - a 118th Scary story special

Filthy Dave was the sick kid in our class at school.

You could only describe Filthy Dave one way: filthy. Filthy of mind and filthy of body. His school jumper was full of holes, and his ears dripped with enough wax to keep the Catholic Church in candles until the Second Coming. And his mind - we prided ourselves on being a pretty cosmopolitan, depraved bunch, but Filthy Dave was a breed apart.

When somebody suggested what a laugh it would be just to spy on the girl's changing room during PE, Filthy Dave was the one who marched in and had a good look round while high-pitched screams shattered the windows. The only words we got out of him for the next two weeks were "Tracey... Tracey..." and a glazed, faraway look which could only be erased by a well-aimed punch to the scrotum.

When Miss Shagwell was sensitively discussing the subject of female genitals during a sex education class, Filthy Dave was the one who asked for a practical, hands on demonstration. And knowing Miss Shagwell's reputation, he probably got one too.

Filthy Dave's idea of a good laugh was to open a box of fishing maggots in the dining hall during lunch - and eat a handful; while one of the ingredients he brought in for a home economics class was an unidentifiable road-kill picked up and stuffed into a Sainsbury's carrier bag on the way to school.

He was always doing the disgusting stuff your mother warned you against. Filthy Dave started the school craze for crapping through letterboxes, and leaving a well-placed turd exactly where you least expected to find one. For example, on the rear pew of the local church during the school carol concert. Filthy Dave was a filthy, filthy boy, and gained a cult following not just for his filth, but for the fact that as far as I know, he never, ever got into trouble for anything he ever did.

Filthy Dave once shaved his head during Maths. "It's the lice, miss," he explained and not a word was spoken on the subject.

One day, he found that by drinking enough blue ink (either from ink cartridges or straight from the bottle, the filthy Quink addict), he could do a blue poo, and laying a log on a piece of yellow paper nicked from the art class, he discovered, with a bit of prodding that he could make a passable example of the school badge in faeces. The school motto was an entirely different matter, but it's amazing what you can achieve with ear wax, snot and Lord knows what else extracted from bodily orifices. We thought it best not to ask how he achieved the red lettering.

So, over a period of several weeks (I could be wrong with this detail - subsequent police reconstructions suggest that it may have taken him "ten, maybe fifteen" minutes), while the rest of the class were out playing football and fighting over pornographic literature, Filthy Dave beavered away at home over his meisterwerk, crouching over a piece of paper, pants round his ankles, eyes bulging with the strain. He sculpted it, varnished it, and handed the result in as part of a project in "three dimensional texture modelling" for his CSE in Art.

Mr Law - the mad bastard's mad bastard - was so impressed he showed it to the Head, who, in turn, was so impressed that he had it hung in the school entrance hall, where I gather it remains to this day. I always knew our school was crap. Luckily for all involved, the photographer from the Maidenhead Advertiser was covering a rare fully-clothed Women's' Institute meeting, and failed to keep his appointment.

I still see Filthy Dave every now and then. He is no longer filthy, just plain Dave. It's sad how age mellows people. But God, you should see his kids.

Scaryduck will be spending the next two weeks undertaking a dangerous mission behind enemy lines, smuggling soap into France in the name of freedom, democracy and sweet-smelling armpits. Updates may be sparse until his return from some Gallic pound-you-in-the-ass prison, feel free to talk amongst yourselves in the thoughtfully provided Speak your Brains section.

The Scaryduck Archive

Thursday, July 15, 2004

Film Review: Fahrenheit 9/11

Film Review: Fahrenheit 9/11

by guest reviewer Winston Smith

"Last night to the flicks. All war films. Audience much amused by shots of a great huge fat man trying to stick one on George W Bush..."

Fahrenheit 9/11 is a rare beast - a documentary that is, in the most part, stimulating. Audience participation is encouraged, with great cries of "wanker!" from the proles when Tony Blair appears, and hoots of laughter at the wit and wisdom of the President of the United States.

"I call upon all nations to do everything they can to stop these terrorist killers. Thank you." [brings up his golf club] "Now, watch this drive."

F9/11 is a powerful, bewildering film with the boot going in on Bush from the first pre-credit scene, and keeps kicking as the full horror of the US administration is revealed. Nepotism in the Florida election count, the Bin Laden-Bush connection, the Saudi dominance of the US economy (the Saudis have America by the bollocks - the mere threat of withdrawing the estimated one trillion dollars invested in America makes Bush and any sucessive president King Fahd's bitch), the climate of fear following 9/11 and the unjustified invasion of Iraq based on the lie so damningly crushed by subsquent events, brought home by a mother's reaction to the death of her son in Kabala.

Bush comes across as a lovable idiot, the kind of kid you laughed at in school as you showed him the Blue Goldfish in the boys' toilets. I'm not certain such a dolt could become the figurehead of the most powerful nation on Earth, but Moore implies that he is Seller's Chauncey Gardiner surrounded by king-makers and yes-men; and at other times he is Max Wall's King Bruno the Questionable from Jabberwocky - all grand pronouncements and little substance as events unfold around him, a childrens' book about a goat on his knee as the horror of the World Trade Centre unfolds. Bush, according to Moore, is just the friendly face of corporate dictatorship - it doesn't matter who you vote for, the billionaires pulling the strings always win.

Where F9/11 is most disturbing is the juxtaposition of the Iraqi War - images of US soldiers slashing, burning and bleeding profusely to their own death metal soundtrack; broken, charred bodies of Iraqi civilians - with the smug suits of a big-business sponsored reconstruction conference, where corporations get their noses in the trough of Iraq's oil billions and discuss a future in terms of cold, hard cash. For themselves. As one grinning fool put it:

"Unfortunately, at least for the near term, we think it's going to be a good situation. Er, a dangerous situation. Good for business, bad for the people. "

One suit from the Harris Corporation could be heard complaining that his slice of the cake wasn't as ridiculously huge as that of other companies. They only got 96 million to run Iraqi TV, after the coalition forces had bombed the previous, perfectly servicable network back into the stone age, with bombs bought, doubtlessly from another grinning suit. A win-win all round. Unless you're Iraqi. Or some poorly-paid grunt waiting for the next road-side bombing in Baghdad.

What Moore does very well is to bring the horror of war home to the viewer. Not only stripping away the layers of cotton wool and gung-ho thoughtfully added by the producers of Fox News (in my limited personal experience, war is loud in a way the acoustics of your TV surround sound system does not do justice in the comfortable confines of your living room, terrifying and horrifying in a way that won't go away at night - F9/11 comes closest to this experience than any film I've ever seen), but also the human cost, where it is the poor who have their lives wrecked to protect the share portfolios of the rich.

"Where is God? Where are you?" wails a bereaved Iraqi woman as she buries five dead family members, victims of one of Rumsfeld's "precision strikes."

"Why did you have to take my son? Why is it my son that you had to take?" cries Lila Liscomb, as she reads her son's last letter home.

"It's good to be amongst the 'haves'" says Bush at a particularly sumptuous banquet, "and the 'have mores'." The majority, it appears, fall outside this category.

The film is by no means perfect. There is so much wrong with Bush's presidency that a mere 123 minutes does the subject little justice. This film should be at least another couple of hours longer just to fit it all in, but then there wouldn't have been quite so many bums on seats. However, whole sections were just far too parochial for a UK audience, but Moore didn't make the film with foreign audiences in mind. For his domestic audience one feels he is preaching to the converted.

Secondly, F9/11 descends at times into a mawkish sentimentality of a kind you only find in Robin Williams movies. Moore cannot interview to save his life, and is at his most effective when he lets his subjects express themselves in their own words. On more than one occasion he comes across as a bearded Esther Rantzen, and that is not an image I'd like to entertain for long.

Moore ends with an Orwellian analogy of total, unending war; where it doesn't matter if the enemy is Eurasia or Eastasia as long as the status quo of the one-sided conflict of rulers against their subjects is maintained. Tell the lie often enough and it becomes the truth, and F9/11 exposes the lie behind Bush's never-ending war. But with disturbingly high numbers of Americans still believing Saddam Hussein was behind the September 11th attacks, it appears that Moore's swipe at the corporatised propaganda machine still has many minds to change.

But then, "nobody cares what the proles say typical prole reaction..."

Thursday vote-o

Read list-me-do. Choose-sir! Vote-o!

* Trench Warfare
* Leaflets
* Glider
* Filthy Dave
* Wrong Funeral
* Paint
* Ceiling

Warning: May contain traces of woe.

The Scaryduck Archive

Wednesday, July 14, 2004

On humour, again

On Humour, Again

"There's nothing so unfunny as people trying to analyse humour." That is, dear reader, because the stupid bastards at University College Fulchester forget to throw in a few cheap nob gags of their own in a 2,000 page analysis of knock-knock jokes in a post-modern society dominated by the doorbell.

My humour, as regular readers will testify, can be best described as "total ape-shit bonkers on Prozac"; or as Mrs Duck says: "Look, just shut up."

The problem is that the best gags spring from something completely ordinary, and my saying (usually out loud, in a crowded room) "Yeah, but what if...?" This often happens during the evening news, where a fit of laughter means that I've gone off on one again.


(Resigned) "What is it now?"

"Blunkett's banging on about ID cards again. Why don't we just tell him we've all got one - he'll never know."

"Look, just shut up."

"And while we're at it, let's replace his guide dog with a tiger. That'll be good for a laugh."


A recent programme on Iraqi WMDs lead to a prolonged, and if my memory serves, painful discussion on Guns That Turn Your Enemies Into Sheep, and "That's why you haven't got any friends". And I thought Tony Hancock had a hard time.

Strangely, my best writing is done on platform three at Bournemouth Station, where confused thoughts of work, home and travel can be pulled together as I wait, bum-grapes aching on the metal bench for transport, any transport, west of Poole. And it's ace for collecting train numbers, too. Arse-berries aside, it is my favourite place, where I try fruitlessly to increase the mass usage of the words "spooge", "minge" and "philately", while trying to put a "Trapped in Sticker Factory" sticker on the huge Welcome to Bournemouth sign without the station master beating me senseless.

So, where does humour come from, apart from the usual pain, adversity, solitude, self-loathing and dressing up in womens' underwear for a quick laugh? I've thought long and hard about this and have, after much soul-searching, come up with the following: Buggered if I know, but Les Dawson made quite a career out of it.

Now clear off the lot of ya - I've hammered this one into the ground. You've sucked me dry, I can analyse comedy no more. You even got a good half-a-dozen gags into the bargain, something you wouldn't normally see in the Daily Telegraph, unless there's a particularly good tale of infidelity going through the High Court.

Train coming, spotter's notebook ready, all out of Anusol. "Stone me, what a life."

Dates for your diary: July 12th - the guy at the top of my road finally takes down his Christmas lights, large house discovered underneath.

The Scaryduck Archive

Tuesday, July 13, 2004

Odds and Sods

Odds and Sods

A load of stuff that's been cluttering my brain this week. Downloaded here so it can clutter up yours too.

* So, where have all the England flags gone? A couple of weeks ago, they were everywhere. Now that we're offically crap again, they've all disappeared. Insert witty comment here.

* Taking my eye off the ball (as it were), I failed to notice that one-bollocked cycling legend and cancer survivor Lance Armstrong had split with his wife and run off with Shania "That Don't Impress Me Much" Twain.

"So, you've won the Tour de France five times in a row. OK, that's quite impressive."

It must be the shorts.

* Good news for Bournemouth-based perverts! It's the Miss England final this weekend, and a bigger bunch of slappers you will never see. Call me a man with unique problems if you wish, but the word "skanky" immediately springs to mind.

Miss Essex would probably try to kill you for money. How disappointing it must be to become Miss Newquay Lifeboats 2004. I would have expected her to be far butcher. And wearing oilskins.

* Following the Popbitch story of a naturist heavy metal tribute band called Nudist Priest, I bring you the West Country's finest tribute act - the Red Hot Silli Feckers.

* Only interesting to bloggers: The BBC is experimenting with community weblogs, giving residents of the Scottish Highlands and Islands their own blogs. Already there are the frequent bloggers and those who have fallen by the wayside, but where else can you get all the tawdry inside gossip on Balamory?

* Googlewhack!: Rampant Bumsexualist and George W Bush is a spectacular twunt. I RULE!

* Please listen to my fartings! Japanese fetish video - or is it?

* Misheard, I think: "Yeah, I really want to give up smoking. I'm going for Hitler Therapy next month."

* Certainly not misheard: "I held a bukkake party last night. It was rubbish. Nobody came."

The Scary Archive-me-do

Monday, July 12, 2004

Fighting Crime

Fighting Crime

It is common knowledge to any reader of the hang 'em and flog 'em tabloid press that crime is running rampant in this country. You can't leave your front door without hoardes of immigrant muggers and pickpockets descending on your person and beating you to a bloody pulp for the contents of your wallet. Meanwhile, armies of drug-addled burglars are turning over your home and murdering your granny in her bed. Something's got to be done. Where's Superman when you need him?*

David Blunkett's obviously not doing his job as the total number of violent criminals to be savaged to death by his guide dog is yet to reach double figures as violent crime rages out of control across this green and pleasant land*** It is obvious to any clean-living, god-fearing middle-class Little Englander that something has to be done about this state of affairs, and that is where our independent think-tank, The Clean-Living, God-Fearing Middle-Class Little Englander Association comes in.

Our plans are radical. It is clear that most crime is perpetrated by poor people. The liberal solution to this would be to give them money to stop them from being poor. However, our studies conclude that they only go and spend this money not of "cups of tea" or "my train fare back to Glasgow" but on booze and drugs and only goes to encourage them further, following us about and calling us "Jimmy". Instead, we aim to give them the very thing they crave - red-hot, class-A prescription drugs of the highest quality.

And that's the nub. These punks, crooks, scoungers and ne'er-do-wells may think they're getting top quality heroin, but instead, we are pumping their veins full of Mogadon. Pretty soon, they'll be too knackered out to rob old ladies and the crime problem will be solved. This has the addded advantage of making the subject miss his signing-on appointment at the Job Centre, saving the tax-payer a small fortune in benefits. A win-win solution, I think you'll agree.

The road to this solution was not a smooth one. Attempts to ply the subjects with viagra caused no end of trouble and we are banned from the dry-cleaners, and we will never look at a barber shop floor in the same way again. Only the application of chilli sauce to the private parts saved a national catastrophe.

Our work continues with an experiment to force wrong-doers to attend Jim Davidson concerts our latest experiment in retribution, providing we get the go-ahead from the people who run the Geneva Convention. Bloody Swiss.

* In a wheelchair.**

** Sorry.

*** copyright Daily Express 1880-2004

The Scaryduck Archive

Friday, July 09, 2004

Science Club - The Truth at last

Science Club

"Good heavens Miss Sakamoto - you're beautiful!" -- Dr Magnus Pyke

I have alluded to the existence of Piggott School Science Club on several occasions in these journals, often as the starting point for some ill-advised adventure into fire and pain, usually ending with intervention from the Police, Her Majesty's Armed Forces or Men In Black. Shrouded in mystery, like Fight Club, we never spoke of it.

Fellow lunatic Balders and I have traded reminiscences of this frightening period of our lives, and it is only now, with most of the protagonists behind bars in Guantanamo that the truth can be told.

Science Club - referred to as WMD Programme 4176/GB1C/PG by the UN Inspectorate - was run by our Aryan overlord Dr "Tucker" Jenkins after school in a secret compound cunningly disguised as a school science block. Virtually indestructable (and God, we tried) this was to become a nest of teen idiots determined to try to poison, frazzle or just plain old annihilate as much school equipment as we possibly could. Youthful curiousity, our teachers called it; or, as it was known to us "Let's burn stuff!"

Tucker possessed piercing blue eyes, pale, slightly watery of the kind usually posessed by homicidal nutters in Hollywood thrillers. Mrs Jenkins was pretty fit, and was obviously provided by the security services as a reward for recruiting not-so-innocent schoolkids in a plot that eventually inspired the "Demon Headmaster" books.

Balders: I always wonder if PJ was trying to recruit us for some subversive organisation. He was always encouraging the most outlandish of experiments involving pyrotechnics, massive voltages, huge currents, etc. I mean, Christ, with a bit more direction we would have been knocking out suitcase nukes within a year or two. Fair hair, watery blue eyes, hmmm. Got it! Bet PJ worked for either SMERSH or SPECTRE.

Me: Whatever the truth, the powers that be put their foot down on the bomb factory and closed it down the year I left. Either that, or our mission had been accomplished. Bear in mind that this was the year of the Falklands Conflict... The most likely reason for the abrupt assertion of grown-up authority was probably something lethal cooked up by Cookie, or Metal, our two lunatics-in-residence, who always seemed to have some outlandish scheme up their sleeves.

My first experience of Science Club was Metal trying to make his own TV transmitter out of an old vacuum cleaner motor and a load of cardboard. It didn't have a plug on it, so he used a screwdriver to stick the bare wires down the plug terminals. Safety first, eh?

"It worked for John Logie Baird" he claimed.

"And he's dead as well," was the answer.

In the end, this led to Metal getting busted by The Man for running a pirate radio station from his bedroom, broadcasting his favourite records and homework hints to whoever was listening. Unfortunately, he gave his home phone number for the dial-in show and was rumbled in minutes.

And then there was the time we went round the school with a note from Jenkins saying we were doing a study into the effects of cigarette smoke, and could we have some of your fags please sir/miss? We got about fifty, used two in the experiment, and then smoked the rest ourselves. I think he got a 20% cut, which he flogged on to support his meagre wage.

Balders: The railgun (otherwise known as a Linear electro-magnetic accelerator - don't try this at home, kids!) was a 5ft long masterpiece inspired by Robert Heinlein, and an inspiration to Cookie for further acts of destruction. Construction materials for future related projects were restricted as a result of the railgun's effectivness.

It would accelerate any smooth object - and we used loads, ball bearings, drifts, rods, darts, small change - to terrifying speeds. We also welded quite a few to the rails. We never managed to measure terminal velocity at the 5' mark but it was fucking fast. Thing was, this beast looked gorgeous. two shiny copper "rails", a bank of 10 monstrous 1Kv capacitors to crank the current, compressed air blower to force a current of air down the pvc "barrel" into the gun itself, switched electromagnets above and below the track. Colonel Qadaffi's got one.

Firing it was the best bit. Massive arcing, sparks, loud bangs and this beast trying to tear itself apart every time. We blew two of the caps to pieces first time out, half the wiring had to be replaced each time, and we tripped the power to the entire science block until we learned to disconnect from the mains once everything was charged. Monster. Life expectancy of the rails was about 10 shots. By then they were complete fucked, eroded, bent, partially melted. Power output was somewhere about 10-12KJ. We're pretty sure it inspired Ronald Reagan's SDI.

After building the beast, we wanted to have a go at a Tesla coil. Tucker drew the line at that, something to do with not having enough coins for the electricity meter, and "wanting to have children at some stage in his life". He wanted to breed. Ugh. Do a google on Tesla coils and you'll see why The Man put his foot down.

Me: I went round to Cookie's house once while he was taking a couple of months off school to have his appendix out. Apart from showing me his huge, festering wound on his abdomen that made me puke, we had a go on the railgun he had built in his his bedroom/workshop. We damn near put a ball bearing through the wall to next door. His mum complained that their electricity bill "was going through the roof".

Balders: Do you remember Sodium and Lithium races? Use a pipette to make two or three long lines of water down the desk. Then choose your lump of sodium. On the count of three the contestants would drop their lumps into the lines of water. Winner was the person whose piece of Sodium reached the end of the line first, or went the furthest.

Alternatively, snaffle all the sodium out of the Apps Room when the lab technicians had gone home and lob great lumps into toilets. We took possession of great strips of magnesium too, which was always good for startling the cleaners.

Me: Our adventures reached a bit of a pinnacle when Jenkins was persuaded to show us how to make nitro-glycerin. Ever the chemist, he jumped at the chance to demonstrate his prowess, and a good couple of hours were spent one evening knocking out a sizeable batch of the stuff. It was all a bit hairy because of the precautions you've got to take, and the correct proportions and temperatures needed to make a fairly stable batch; but with some surrupticious note-taking it was a skill we soon mastered in the comfort of our own homes. And we hardly blew any close relatives up, at all.

Balders: Thermite grenades? Jenkins showed us one evening just how effective the thermite process of oxidation and reduction could be. Highly exothermic was his description. Myself and Bogroll (ah, schoolyard nicknames are such poetry, aren't they?) thought "Fucking hell, we're gonna die" was more appropriate. In class we used about 5gms of Aluminium and 5gms of Iron Oxide. In science club we used about 250gms of each with a magnesium starter, wrapping the whole edifice in clay. We were lucky to survive.

Me: I tell you, Tucker was either a sleeper for Al Qaeda or the IRA. Or Certifiable. With the correct combination of teachers - Mr Lewis teaching political ideology, Wilkie passing on classified nuclear secrets and Barmy 'Army supplying the engineering know-how and delivery systems, Miss Shagwell the masturbatory fantasies, we could have taken over the world.

"You will bow down before me, Jor-El." -- Tucker Jenkins

Eye of the Tiger

The charidee run is over, and I loped home in a speed marginally faster than continental drift. But I can pride myself in the fact that I didn't finish last, and even after the free lunch the Beeb threw in, I still haven't died ye.... +++ CARRIER LOST +++

Archive me up, Scary-o!

Thursday, July 08, 2004

If it's Thursday, this must be Neasden

If it's Thursday, this must be Neasden

I'm still not quite sure how I came to be involved, but tomorrow I shall be taking part in a fancy-dress one mile run for Sports Relief. A mile! There's no such distance! This could be the end of me, the world oblivious to my fate, face down and decomposing in a ditch in Reading, as this site updates itself for months on auto-pilot thanks to the miracles of the magic web-donkey.

As I have no idea what fancy dress to wear - my plan of going as a lightly-oiled Kirstie Allsopp being stolen by other, less imaginative collegues, I shall be forced to take part dressed as a fat slob from Weymouth. Or war criminal Radovan Karadzic, if I can get the wig.

To the Thursday vote-o! Descriptions may not be 100 per cent accurate:

Trench Warfare : "But Dave! He's French!"
Leaflets : The day Idi Amin stole my mojo
Glider : It was a braw bricht moonlicht nicht. Whatever that was.
Filthy Dave : A salutory lesson why you should never believe everything Thora Hird says
Wrong Funeral : "You mean Dame Edna Everidge is really a man? Does the Queen know?"
Paint : "I'm sorry Miss Parton, you're going to have to do that again. I'm not wearing my glasses"
Science Club : Our mission to get the word "Felch" on the Shipping Forecast

And the reason for this madness? The discovery that the man entirely responsible for my writing style has a website. If anyone remembers Teletext's Digitiser pages, this is your man. He also made Dirty Den say "cunt" an hour before the watershed, which makes him a hero in anybody's book. Except Mary Whitehouse, if she wasn't already dead.

Um... where were we? Ah yes - vote-o!

The Scaryduck Archive

Wednesday, July 07, 2004

The return of the Colonel

The Return of the Colonel

Oh Lordy, he's back! Following his triumph in the European elections, the UKIP MEP for Little Bastard continues his correspondence with this august journal.

Sir -

Speaking as a citizen of this once proud nation, I am writing to express my utter disgust at the perfidious grip that so-called "popular" music has taken over our youth. I can tell you right now that it is not popular in our household! Only recently, after beating our transistor radio into a pulp with a good, stout British cricket bat after the Bolshevik Broadcasting Corporation dared play some sort of jiggerboo music on "You and Yours" did I realise how these Rods and Mockers are bringing our society to its knees.

I propose an immediate ban on the Radio Times - a paragon of filth on a level with Pravda - and the Devil's own "Top of the Pops" which is nothing but a shop-window for masturbatory lusts and gyrating near-naked buttocks, which have driven my wife Brian to the very edge of rabid madness. The youth of today need to be re-educated with such evergreen artists as George Formby, Algernon Hitler (whose legendary number "What-ho darkie!" had us whistling all the way into Suez and straight out again), Chas'n'Dave and Skrewdriver.

A spell in the army would do these no-good tykes a power of good. Discipline, that's what they need; along with good military music instead of these drug-addled jungle-drums we hear these days from so-called "musical" artists who would shit in your airing cupboard and wipe their arse on your net curtains given half the chance. And let's not forget the nipple clamps, made me the man I am today.

I am not mad.

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


Following on from the news that the Daleks will not be appearing in the new series of Dr Who due to contractual difficulties, we here at Scaryduck can exclusively reveal the terrifying new super-villains that will take their place. Get behind your sofas, puny Earthlings, for we bring you The Chavs.

That picture is just wrong on so many levels. See if you can spot everything I did...

Hey wow! It's Rasputin's nob! In a jar! If that thing had brains, it'd rule the world.

Quality religious nuttery, should ideally be read in an Alan Partridge voice. I challenge you to read "Apes, Lies and Ms Henn" without wanting to murder little Susy in her bed.

Good news for masturbators everywhere! You are already on the Hand Shandy Diet. I bet God-fearing Susy's got something to say about that.

The Scaryduck Archive

Tuesday, July 06, 2004

"Now listen carefully Double-O Seven"

Double-O Seven. Or to you, six

"This kind of thing doesn't happen to James Bond", said the low-quality Meatloaf impersonator during a recent hellish two-hour replacement bus service, laid on by the wanktards that run South West Trains. That is, I pointed out, because he's a fictional character. But then, what if it did...?

Q: Now listen carefully 007. As you know, government cutbacks have hit this department hard, but we're not going to send you out into the field without the proper equipment. Take this.

Bond: What is it?

Q: It is, 007, what is known as an Oyster Card. Touch in, touch out. All zones, just make sure you stay in Central London. The paperwork gets hellish otherwise.

Bond: But what about SPECTRE? We hear they've just relocated to Swindon.

Q: Well, Bond, you are, what they say in the service "fucked". I suggest you get yourself down to Chiswick and stick out your thumb.

Bond: But what about weapons? SPECTRE are already threatening the world with their brain-melting deathray. I can hardly go in unarmed.

Q: I'm glad you asked me that, 007. Take a look at this little number the lads in Q Division have knocked out for you.

Bond: It's a baseball bat, Q.

Q: Very observant, 007. But it is no ordinary baseball bat - one twist of the handle and look - it's got a house-brick nailed to it.

Bond: How very re-assuring. The civilised world can sleep soundly tonight.

Q: That's the spirit, Bond. Now, are you ready to go? Spare underwear?

Bond: Yes.

Q: Luncheon Vouchers?

Bond: Yes.

Q: And remember to look both ways when you cross the road. It's a nasty old world out ther.

Bond: Thank you, Q.

Q: And one final thing Bond. Rubber Johnnies do not count as a legitimate business expense. You can't imagine the ear-bending I got off Moneypenny.

Brucey Bonus

Wheeeeeeeeeeeeee! for doing your shopping off the Tesco website.

They must have got the new kid on today - all the stuff we ordered that was "2 for 1" must have confused the poor windowlicker. We got four of everything, including enough bog roll to last until armageddon* in a disturbing replay of Tesco's current unfunny TV advert.

Rather disappointed, however, at the lack of comedy substitutions: "We were unable to find RAGU ORIGINAL FLAVOUR 375g, so we have substituted TAMPAX 24 EXTRA-ABSORBANT instead." They are, I fear, losing their touch.

*or unless we get dysentry off the frightening pile of ham & pineapple pizzas they sent us by way of a Brucey Bonus.

The Scaryduck Archive

Monday, July 05, 2004

Animal Cruelty Monday

What's Scary doing this week?


South West Trains made me two hours late for work this morning. How insulting should my letter of complaint be? I'm going for "premier-league muppetry" and "unprecedented levels of buffoonry" - do you think "complete shower of wanktards" is taking it too far? The actual letter I sent can be found on Robber Rabbit.


Hope of the States - The Lost Riots
Morrissey - You are the Quarry
The Shins - Chutes Too Narrow
The Delays - Faded Seaside Glamour
Iggy Pop - Blah Blah Blah


H. Montgomery Hyde's authoritative biography of Oscar Wilde. What a rip-off. Page 56 and he's still not gay.


Trapped in Sticker Factory - Send Help!. Give money to Thomas, get stickers, hilarity/jailarity ensues. I am particularly proud of this one, and the sticker on the drive-thru window at the Weymouth KFC, which are both still there.

My daughter is now involved. Nothing good can come of this.


I've been spending some time this week trying to find some seagull spikes for the top of luxury seaside penthouse. We're having a small, flat roof added as part of our loft extension and machine gun nest. Any level surface is almost immediately leapt upon by feathery rats as a nesting ground, and before you know it, you've got a whole family of the pikey bastards. I now have some lovely spikes, courtesy of an Exeter company called Pigeon Off - "We bugger 'em an' eat 'em".

However, this may be money down the drain after the wonders of the Interspazz has informed me of a far better way of dealing with the evil beaked peril.

Seagulls, you see, in order to deal with their largely junk diet have incredibly acidic stomachs. Feed them with sardines stuffed with baking soda causes a chemical reaction that makes them explode. Somehow, I cannot bring myself to stoop to such levels.

Bollocks to this, I'm off to club some seals instead.

The Scaryduck Archive

Friday, July 02, 2004

Colleagues from Hell

Colleagues from Hell

One of the promises I made - both to myself and to my employer who holds a sizeable pension in my name - is that I'd never write about the people I work with. I have colleagues who could fill these pages for the next few months, but alas, while they remain within the employ of this fine Corporation, their stories must remain untold. The ones who have gone on to pastures now, however, are fair game. Heh.

Good grief, where do I start? My first memory of this place was of the office lesbians playing tonsil-hockey in the reception area, while waiting, a nervous wreck, for a job interview as a computer operator. From that jaw-dropping moment (it was 1989 after all, and lesbians hadn't been invented), it was all downhill for the next fifteen years.

There was "Special Agent Dick." Many of the people who work in this remote arm of a large Broadcasting Corporation in Britain, especially in the closing days of the Cold War, were taken on for their, let me say, unique talents. Many were dissidents and refugees, others just plain weird. Special Agent Dick was one of the latter, perhaps the most paranoid man on the planet. He claimed to be the inventor of the tin foil hat, and given a saw and sharp knives would probably have attempted to demonstrate that he really did have a radio in his head controlled by Leonid Brezhnev.

I arrived at work one evening to find the place surrounded by police cars, flashing lights, cordon, the works. It turned out that Dick had been doing his laundry in the machine in the cleaners' area, gone away for a cup of tea, only to find that someone had made off with his Y-Fronts.

Spies! It had to be the KGB, onto his case at last. There was nothing for it - down to the phone box at the end of the road and 999. They declined to send MI5, so the Thames Valley's finest turned up instead. Sheepishly, Inspector Knacker inspected the evidence and announced to Special Agent Dick that Communist Spies were not to blame at all - au contraire, the Y-Fronts were still there, stuck to the drum by the fast spin.

Dick was last seen in the canteen trying to remove a piece of bread from a toaster with a knife. It was at that point he was asked to leave.

I should laugh - the day after this piece was written, a certain S Duck could be seen climbing through the self-same laundry window wearing nothing but a pair of shorts (commando style) and a Father Ted t-shirt in a desparate attempt to rescue all of his clothes that were locked inside.

Other loonies included Maria, a Slovak speaker, closely related to the Wicked Witch in The Wizard of Oz. She scared grown men, and gave kids nightmares. To say she was superstitious was an understatement - she would book every single Friday 13th off work, and any day that looked inauspicious on her horoscope. She put a curse on our department, which has still not been lifted. I knew I shouldn't have taken the piss out of her hairy armpits.

Gullible as hell, she took the change from typewriters to computers very badly, and was convinced that the rays from the screens would render us all impotent and turn us into dribbling zombies. She was part right, then. To save herself, she bought several pairs of pinhole glasses - specs with solid plastic lenses with dozens of holes in them that made you look like a fly, and allegedly shielding your eyesight from deadly gamma radiation. All well and uselesss sitting in front of your screen, but all the time, even in the canteen for lunch? Asked to leave on a generous pension...

Others were mad and useless, and were given their just desserts - promotion above and beyond their capabilities. Take a certain French linguist. For starters, her grasp of the French language was tenuous in the extreme - an interview with the French Prime Minister was translated into a baffling polemic on the subject of hamsters, while a story on the building of a replica rocket in Belgium's Tin-Tin theme park was faxed to the Ministry of Defence marked "Urgent".

It was in her capacity as a Senior Editor that Jan's lack of talent really shone through. Those present will never forget the editorial meeting where a tape recording of the Two Minute's Silence was requested. We excelled on that front - we managed to provide an entire C-90 of silence just for her. Asked to leave on a generous pension...

Even my own department was not immune from lunatics, as my recent story on The Curse of Barking Steve attests. But there were others.

Pete was a lippy Scouser taken on when we were desperate and/or temporarily insane. He liked a drink did our Pete, and would often turn up to work half pissed, before slinking off to the pub as soon as back were turned. He wasn't helped by another colleague - two-timing on his girlfriend - who would bribe us all with alcohol "liberated" from the Circle K he moonlighted at in return for alibis.

On one occasion, Pete arrived for a night shift, an hour late and with a retinue of idiots he'd met in the pub, failed to do a stroke of work for the entire shift, and was found, still drunk, asleep under a desk at nine the next morning, with several idots, caked in vomit, unconscious in the tape store. Asked to leave when he drunkenly put a stolen car into a ditch whilst desperately trying to get into work a mere five hours late. The only time I've ever seen a colleague chased from the premises. I never saw him sober.

Darren had a habit of not turning up for his shifts, mainly because his Danish girlfriend - who he worshipped - wouldn't let him leave the house. And let's face it, with a crazed naked Scandiwegian barring your way to freedom, who wouldn't?

So, it came as no surprise that Darren failed to turn up one Thursday lunchtime. Obviously banging away at his Viking sex kitten, we surmised - he may just turn up in time for tea and cakes. Fat chance. He didn't turn up the next day. Or the next. Then came a call on the Bat Phone.

"It's me, Darren," said a distant voice.

"Where the fuck are you?" asked an understandably upset supervisor.



Christiana had given him an ultimatum - go back with her to some tiny village near Copenhagen, or it's over; and she more-or-less kidnapped the poor sod. Within a week he was back and begging for his job.

Three months later, there was another phone call.

"Where the fuck are you?"

"Denmark again."

"Well, fucking stay there this time."

Marian was a cleaner. No maid she, she was known as Mad Marian, or to give her full title "Sex Mad Marian". Fifty if she was day, she dressed like a teenager let loose in Chelsea Girl for the first time, with make-up by Stevie Wonder. She frightened the hell out of the entire male staff with her rampaging sexual prowess and bandy legs.

In charge of cleaning up the Lodge, where staff could stay overnight at an impressively low rate, she had a habit of turning up to clean the rooms while guests still slept, and whipped back the covers to "inspect" the goods. It led to a prolonged and entirely embarrassing affair with one of my close colleagues that we're all too ashamed to talk about even now.

So, there we were, sitting in the bar one lunchtime, nursing a pint and trying not to think about going back to work. In tramps Marian.

"It's me birthday," she announced, "Who's going to come down to the laundry an' fuck me?"

Never has the bottom of one's glass looked so interesting. There were, I am sickened to report, takers.

Just in case anyone I work with is reading this, see if you can guess which current highly respected staff member approached me with this request:

"Ah, Scary. Tell me now, do we receive Nigerian Radio?"

"Why yes, we do," I replied, tuning the station in on one of our exceedingly impressive radios. "When do you want it for?"

"1800 hours. Yesterday."

"Ah. Take a close look here at this piece of equipment. It is a radio. The time machine is still on order."

Fifteen years in the same job. The vast majority of the people I have worked with in this time have been perfectly sane individuals who have been a pleasure to work with. It is, however, the loonies, drunks, pre-op trans-sexuals and Keepers of the Dressing-Up Box that made it interesting.

The Scaryduck Archive

Thursday, July 01, 2004

BBC vs Sky

Murdoch and the BBC

Once again, The Sun's got the BBC in its sights as the Corporation - under new management - sets out its stall for the 2006 Charter renewal. The paper, increasingly barking since Rebakah Wade was installed as the Voice of Murdoch in the editor's seat, will do anything to promote Sky Television and hammer the BBC in the Dirty Digger's quest for worldwide media and political dominance.

"The BBC has got too grand and is too large. It’s time to sell it off." says the clearly rabid Kelvin MacKenzie.

"It would be a shameful waste of our money if the BBC were permitted to continue to squander millions competing with commercial ventures." - Translation: stop bidding for sports rights so we can get them cheaper.

"Why must we pay for it through a £121 TV licence?" - And that old chestnut. You get (count 'em) eight advertising-free TV channels, five advertising-free radio networks, further national digital radio networks (free of advertising), national radio for Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland in English and local dialects (Free of ads - you get the message by now), dozens of local radio stations and regional TV studios, the world's best website (free of pop-ups), and a Foreign Office-funded World Service listen to by 146,000,000 people. Oh, and trust.

Sky Television, owned by the Dirty Digger Rupert Murdoch who also owns The Sun, has a corporate target of relieving the average household of four hundred quid a year. And what do you get for this money? Loads of channels, granted, but very little in-house (or even in-country) production, no community programming, a Sky Scotland channel that was quietly shelved and, oh yes, sixteen minutes of advertising per hour. You pay forty quid a month to watch advertising you also pay for. Genius.

The one diamond in the rough is Sky News - everything a news channel should be, and a salutory lesson for it's American cousin and insult to the broadcasting profession Fox News. But hang on... isn't public service broadcasting the BBC's job?

Real public service broadcasting would be securing those Kirstie Allsopp nude photos for the nation, but that's another story.

The author of this piece has a Sky receiver in his home set at the lowest package, but does not think this is hypocritical in the slightest.

The Thursday Vote-o

You lucky, lucky people. Your humble scribe was up to all hours last night typing like a bugger, and I now have eight stories of mirth and woe for your delight:

* Trench Warfare - mud woe
* Leaflets - summer job woe
* Glider - pain in the arse woe
* Filthy Dave - Concept art woe
* Wrong Funeral - Social gaffe woe
* Colleagues from Hell - the story I vowed I'd never write woe
* Paint - slapstick woe
* Science Club - A Scaryduck/Balders co-production ...err... woe

Vote! Vote! Vote-o!

The Scaryduck Archive