Scary got fingered

Scary got fingered

Yesterday will go down as The Day I Was Found Out At Work About My Weblog. And I have learned this: they do read it, you know.

Following the positive identification of a colleague on these pages, I would like to point out that the Workmate Called K*vin I Once Referred To As A Nob will now be known as "My normally gentle-natured Pompey-supporting colleague, who is twice my size and will pound me to crap with a hockey stick if I ever use his name on here again, or compare his good character to that of a man's genitals. One of the finest men who ever lived". Which is fair enough if you ask me, and the closest thing to an apology you're ever going to get.

Everybody else is fair game.

Harumph

So, you're here to vote for one of my stories, are you? Or are you just dropping in to see if Scarybrother is going to grace us with one of his works of genius, eh? The critical acclaim for last week's tale of woe was almost unanimous in its praise, and clearly these people must die.

"Nearly pissed myself laughing" - Lonely Planet
"The funniest thing I've read for ages - Some other bastard

Me? Jealous about being upstaged by my younger sibling? Shit, yes. So, seeing as he's so good at it, I've let him choose tomorrow's story to save you all the bother. Now excuse me while I go and sulk over here for a bit.

And just for some Duck/Reader interaction, here's a little something I've just tossed off while I work on The Big Weblog Post That Will Blow Your Mind.

Stupid superstitions

Superstition: a complete load of bollocks. Discuss.

There is absolutely no way that your tying your left shoelace first is going to affect the outcome of your day, nor is the selection of your Mickey Mouse tie, unless you intend to wear it for something important like, say, Prime Minister's Questions. But we do it anyway. I live under the irrational fear that my shaving habits are going to ruin the lives of thousands, millions of football fans.

You see, I have to shave on the morning of an Arsenal match, or they will lose. The smoothness of the shave, whilst quietly meditating on the forthcoming game, will often tell me the result, and I can honestly say that I was 100% successful in my predictions for the record-breaking 2003/4 season. Any nicks or rough patches make for goals against, and a blunt Bic razor is just as bad as no shave at all.

As an experiment, I neglected to shave before a recent match against Bolton, and they lost 1-0. Fellow Gooners, please accept my apologies. From now on it's Gillette Mach 98 and King of Shaves all the way.

This superstition replaces the previous underwear-based hoodoo that blighted my life for near on ten years. I bought myself "lucky" Arsenal boxer shorts (as modelled by Colin Firth in Fever Pitch) to wear to the Littlewoods Cup Final in 1988. We lost 3-2 following a missed penalty that would have sewn the game right up, and the pants were clearly cursed.

From then on, wearing the boxers on a match day would doom the team to defeat, and even accidentally touching them in my underwear drawer would be enough to bring down the wrath of the footballing gods.

"Why don't you just throw them out?" said Mrs Scary, refering to their tattered, farted-through condition, rather than their accursed nature.

"I can't. I just. Can't. Touch. Them."

Then the whole story came out, and I was told to "grow up, it's worse than that business with the duck".

She threw them away for me, and equilibrium was restored. The next day was a Saturday, and I needed a shave...

Your turn.