The Universe, explained
Government Warning! The following may fry your sanity and turn you into a swearing, stumbling down-and-out
A few years ago I tried to imagine the infinite size of the universe. Because that's the kind of thing you do when you're mental.
You think of the most important thing in the galaxy - you - standing on the Earth. Then you travel away, as far as you can imagine. Slowly at first, picking up speed as you exit the solar system and head for the furthest reaches of the galaxy and the vast nothingness of the universe beyond.
But that's not enough, so you travel further, expanding the universe to as big as your imagination lets you. And that's still not enough. So you try to imagine an even larger infinity, which is still not large enough. Think of something even bigger stretching out forever beyond that. And still there's more.
Then you look back and try to find yourself in the whole scheme of things.
It was around this point that I realised two things:
a) how fucking huge the universe is. In fact, the word "fuckingcuntingfuckingcunting" does not come close to doing it justice
and b) how small, insignificant and pointless you are in the grand scheme of things.
A spot on the arse of a sub-atomic particle at the bottom of the deepest ocean. All cultural, religious and social assumptions collapse as you realise that nothing, nothing in the universe gives a shit about you.
Then, I had my first nervous breakdown, and realised this is how they make tramps. Perfectly normal, rational people who have fried their brains with a combination of Quantum theory and cheap cider.
Way to go, Einstein, you bastard.
Top five people named after animals
5. Snake Plissken
4. Tiger Woods
3. Kitten Natividad (Russ Meyer's favourite huge bazoomed temptress, now 57 and they hang around her knees)
2. Cat Deeley
1. Timmy Hung-like-a-giraffe Mallett.
Add. More.
Monday, February 28, 2005
Sunday, February 27, 2005
Scaryduck’s ‘Did You Know...?’
Scaryduck’s ‘Did You Know...?’ No. 345
Edson Arantes do Nascimento, known to millions around the world as the greatest footballer that ever lived, tried out a number of nicknames before deciding on the name we know and love - "Pele". Amongst those tried and rejected were:
* Bob
* Chunky Kitkat
* Space Hitler
* Jordan
* et eth eth teth teth et eth eth teth teth Chrissie Waddle
* Football's Mr Sex
Unfortunately, all these names had been taken by other players, the last one by England's Stanley Matthews who used the moniker in a successful music hall career in the late 1950's.
Edson Arantes do Nascimento, known to millions around the world as the greatest footballer that ever lived, tried out a number of nicknames before deciding on the name we know and love - "Pele". Amongst those tried and rejected were:
* Bob
* Chunky Kitkat
* Space Hitler
* Jordan
* et eth eth teth teth et eth eth teth teth Chrissie Waddle
* Football's Mr Sex
Unfortunately, all these names had been taken by other players, the last one by England's Stanley Matthews who used the moniker in a successful music hall career in the late 1950's.
Friday, February 25, 2005
Underneath the Arches: Firework woe
Underneath the Arches
The Twyford railway arches. A forgotten maze of backroads leading to the station car park, taking you past rat-infested streams and wretched-looking allotments, a place where no sane adult would wonder. Which was fine with the local kids, as it provided a relatively safe place to hang out, miles away from the crushing jackboot of adulthood.
Outside the morning and evening rush hours where serious-looking people with a job in the City parked their serious-looking cars, it was the domain of the teenage loafer and the down-and-outs, with only the Blakey-like cries of "I'll get you kids!" from the station master to worry the unwary intruder. People like us, then.
If there was one thing the railway arches were good for, it was the superb echoes a good fifty metres of tunnelling provided. And for a bunch of nutters who liked to blow things up, the tunnels drew us like a magnet. The truly adventurous would spurn the road tunnel, and go down a level to the stream (part of the River Loddon, which flowed through the village, and once swept Matty's bike away in a raging torrent in an earlier episode) where the tunnels were longer, darker, and filled to brimming with supermarket trollies.
Excuse: It was dark, we needed light.
Second excuse: The station master had already told us to bugger off after letting off a whole pile of now-illegal Airbomb Repeaters in the station car park, "I'll call the police if I get any more trouble from you kids" and not to mention "A spell in the army will do you good." He was right on one front - Steve did indeed join the army and worked for several years in bomb disposal.
Third excuse: Science homework due the next day, something to do with the expansion of gasses. We needed practical experience.
Down the embankment, paddle through four inches of fetid water and soon we were engulfed by darkness. What we needed was a light. This was thoughfully provided by Matty's Zippo lighter against the blue touchpaper of an Airbomb.
There was a couple of seconds of sparkles followed by WOOMPH - WOOMPH! as the projectiles were fired from its evil mouth.
And explosion of light, and then another, and the tunnel was filled with a deafening BANG-ANG-ANG-ANG-ANG! that took several seconds to die away.
I think I might have said "Fuck" at some stage, but I couldn't tell through the ringing. We fled from the tunnel, splashing water everywhere, and headed back up the bank to our bikes.
A quick count-up - there were still six Airbombs left between the six of us.
Well, somebody had to suggest it.
Matty: "Why don't we let them all off at once? Just to see what it sounds like. Y'know."
We knew.
This time, back into the road tunnel. No point getting ourselves wet with important work to be done. And none of us actually wanted to be in the tunnel when six Airbombs went off. We may have been stupid, but we weren't stu... No hang on, we WERE stupid, or we wouldn't have been there in the first place.
Steve went back to the stream and fished out an old milk crate. Ideal.
We stood the six evil-looking fireworks in the crate, and set them down JUST inside the road tunnel. After a brief argument about who was going to be damn fool enough to light them with the only source of flame available - Matty's Zippo - it was decided to use the lighter and some rolled up newspaper, so we'd do one each.
What could possibly go wrong?
Light the blue touchpaper, and retire to a safe distance.
Then watch in fear, surprise and alarm as the local copper enters the tunnel at the other end on his pushbike.
Oh. Bollocks.
There wasn't even time to leg it.
The mere printed word cannot do justice to the firey armageddon that took place in the following few seconds. WOOMPH - WOOMPH-WOOMPHITY-OOOOMPH! BANG-ANG-ANG-ANG-ANG! times six just doesn't seem to put across the fear, pain, the whole damn son et lumiere that turned your pants to liquid as you simultaneuosly tried to run, run for your life and remained rooted to the spot wanting to see what happened next.
You've got to hand it to the Thames Valley Constabulary's finest - they're made of stern stuff. As the clouds of smoke cleared and the echoed subsided, he was there, like the Terminator, ready to dispense fearful justice on the wrongdoers.
The helmeted protector of the Queen's Peace chased us down the back roads, round the station and through the church yard, where we finally made good our escape, crouching behind Joyce Smith "Not dead, just resting". If that were the case, a few of our finest pyrotechnics would soon wake the lazy moo from her bed.
Sheepishly we made our way home, knowing full well the grief that was going to fall upon our heads. Steve, the jammy devil, got off scot-free. Not so Matty and I. We lived next door to each other. And three doors further down, ears still ringing, and waiting for parents to arrive home from work - PC Cuthbertson.
Doom.
The Twyford railway arches. A forgotten maze of backroads leading to the station car park, taking you past rat-infested streams and wretched-looking allotments, a place where no sane adult would wonder. Which was fine with the local kids, as it provided a relatively safe place to hang out, miles away from the crushing jackboot of adulthood.
Outside the morning and evening rush hours where serious-looking people with a job in the City parked their serious-looking cars, it was the domain of the teenage loafer and the down-and-outs, with only the Blakey-like cries of "I'll get you kids!" from the station master to worry the unwary intruder. People like us, then.
If there was one thing the railway arches were good for, it was the superb echoes a good fifty metres of tunnelling provided. And for a bunch of nutters who liked to blow things up, the tunnels drew us like a magnet. The truly adventurous would spurn the road tunnel, and go down a level to the stream (part of the River Loddon, which flowed through the village, and once swept Matty's bike away in a raging torrent in an earlier episode) where the tunnels were longer, darker, and filled to brimming with supermarket trollies.
Excuse: It was dark, we needed light.
Second excuse: The station master had already told us to bugger off after letting off a whole pile of now-illegal Airbomb Repeaters in the station car park, "I'll call the police if I get any more trouble from you kids" and not to mention "A spell in the army will do you good." He was right on one front - Steve did indeed join the army and worked for several years in bomb disposal.
Third excuse: Science homework due the next day, something to do with the expansion of gasses. We needed practical experience.
Down the embankment, paddle through four inches of fetid water and soon we were engulfed by darkness. What we needed was a light. This was thoughfully provided by Matty's Zippo lighter against the blue touchpaper of an Airbomb.
There was a couple of seconds of sparkles followed by WOOMPH - WOOMPH! as the projectiles were fired from its evil mouth.
And explosion of light, and then another, and the tunnel was filled with a deafening BANG-ANG-ANG-ANG-ANG! that took several seconds to die away.
I think I might have said "Fuck" at some stage, but I couldn't tell through the ringing. We fled from the tunnel, splashing water everywhere, and headed back up the bank to our bikes.
A quick count-up - there were still six Airbombs left between the six of us.
Well, somebody had to suggest it.
Matty: "Why don't we let them all off at once? Just to see what it sounds like. Y'know."
We knew.
This time, back into the road tunnel. No point getting ourselves wet with important work to be done. And none of us actually wanted to be in the tunnel when six Airbombs went off. We may have been stupid, but we weren't stu... No hang on, we WERE stupid, or we wouldn't have been there in the first place.
Steve went back to the stream and fished out an old milk crate. Ideal.
We stood the six evil-looking fireworks in the crate, and set them down JUST inside the road tunnel. After a brief argument about who was going to be damn fool enough to light them with the only source of flame available - Matty's Zippo - it was decided to use the lighter and some rolled up newspaper, so we'd do one each.
What could possibly go wrong?
Light the blue touchpaper, and retire to a safe distance.
Then watch in fear, surprise and alarm as the local copper enters the tunnel at the other end on his pushbike.
Oh. Bollocks.
There wasn't even time to leg it.
The mere printed word cannot do justice to the firey armageddon that took place in the following few seconds. WOOMPH - WOOMPH-WOOMPHITY-OOOOMPH! BANG-ANG-ANG-ANG-ANG! times six just doesn't seem to put across the fear, pain, the whole damn son et lumiere that turned your pants to liquid as you simultaneuosly tried to run, run for your life and remained rooted to the spot wanting to see what happened next.
You've got to hand it to the Thames Valley Constabulary's finest - they're made of stern stuff. As the clouds of smoke cleared and the echoed subsided, he was there, like the Terminator, ready to dispense fearful justice on the wrongdoers.
The helmeted protector of the Queen's Peace chased us down the back roads, round the station and through the church yard, where we finally made good our escape, crouching behind Joyce Smith "Not dead, just resting". If that were the case, a few of our finest pyrotechnics would soon wake the lazy moo from her bed.
Sheepishly we made our way home, knowing full well the grief that was going to fall upon our heads. Steve, the jammy devil, got off scot-free. Not so Matty and I. We lived next door to each other. And three doors further down, ears still ringing, and waiting for parents to arrive home from work - PC Cuthbertson.
Doom.
Thursday, February 24, 2005
More lazy blogging
More lazy blogging
Stuff cut-and-pasted from other Scaryduck haunts because I'm too much of an idle git to get anything constructive written today.
101 Things you didn't know about TV's Thora Hird
1. Thora once presented Songs of Praise, live from All Saints Church, Weymouth naked from the waist down to win half a bottle of Scotch in a bet with Aled Jones.
2. Her Last of the Summer Wine character is based on Betty Rubble from the Flintstones.
3. Thora wrote the original advertising slogan for Stannah Stairlifts: "Scream if you want to go faster."
10. Thora will appear in a forthcoming Songs of Praise - Undead Special, singing "All Things Bright and Beautiful, they've all got Spicy Brainnnsssss"
13. Thora was made a Dame of the British Empire after sailing solo round the world in Betty Boothroyd.
14. Following a tempestuous affair with Midge Ure out of 80s synth band Ultravox, the spiky sideburned singer penned the words "It means nothing to me" in the song Vienna to tell Thora of his upset at her loose behaviour. "Vienna" was originally entitled "Drop dead Thora Hird you vile old slattern" until the band were talked out of it by the record company.
36. Thora "Get right on one matey" Hird was the shadowy hand behind the 80s Acid House movement.
43. Thora's hobby was having badgers fired out of a cannon stright up her nadger. In fact, she ran the website www.firingbadgersoutofacannonstraightupmynadger.com, for which people paid twenty quid a month for exclusive webcam footage.
47. Thora Hird was barred from the Embassy World Snooker Championships in 2001 after what became known as "The Len Ganley Incident".
49. Due to an administrative cock-up Thora Hird played centre forward for England in the 1966 World Cup Final, where she scored three goals.
55. Thora Hird is one of the secret ingredients in Coca-Cola.
66. Stretch back all that spare, saggy skin from around Thora Hird's face and tie it in a knot at the back of her head, et voila! TV's bubbly daytime presenter Nadia Sawhala!
73. Thora Hird is the same shape as Indonesia.
92. Home Secretary Charles Clarke is to pass controversial "house arrest" legislation to keep Al Qaeda supremo Thora Hird incarcerated without trial to ensure the safety of these islands. However, the intelligence services have neglected to tell him that she's been dead for two years.
Add more.
Thursday Vote-No
I suppose you want to vote on one of my ever-decreasing folder of Scary Tales. OK then:
* Underneath the Arches: Classic blowing-things-up-woe
Vote-me-do!
Stuff cut-and-pasted from other Scaryduck haunts because I'm too much of an idle git to get anything constructive written today.
101 Things you didn't know about TV's Thora Hird
1. Thora once presented Songs of Praise, live from All Saints Church, Weymouth naked from the waist down to win half a bottle of Scotch in a bet with Aled Jones.
2. Her Last of the Summer Wine character is based on Betty Rubble from the Flintstones.
3. Thora wrote the original advertising slogan for Stannah Stairlifts: "Scream if you want to go faster."
10. Thora will appear in a forthcoming Songs of Praise - Undead Special, singing "All Things Bright and Beautiful, they've all got Spicy Brainnnsssss"
13. Thora was made a Dame of the British Empire after sailing solo round the world in Betty Boothroyd.
14. Following a tempestuous affair with Midge Ure out of 80s synth band Ultravox, the spiky sideburned singer penned the words "It means nothing to me" in the song Vienna to tell Thora of his upset at her loose behaviour. "Vienna" was originally entitled "Drop dead Thora Hird you vile old slattern" until the band were talked out of it by the record company.
36. Thora "Get right on one matey" Hird was the shadowy hand behind the 80s Acid House movement.
43. Thora's hobby was having badgers fired out of a cannon stright up her nadger. In fact, she ran the website www.firingbadgersoutofacannonstraightupmynadger.com, for which people paid twenty quid a month for exclusive webcam footage.
47. Thora Hird was barred from the Embassy World Snooker Championships in 2001 after what became known as "The Len Ganley Incident".
49. Due to an administrative cock-up Thora Hird played centre forward for England in the 1966 World Cup Final, where she scored three goals.
55. Thora Hird is one of the secret ingredients in Coca-Cola.
66. Stretch back all that spare, saggy skin from around Thora Hird's face and tie it in a knot at the back of her head, et voila! TV's bubbly daytime presenter Nadia Sawhala!
73. Thora Hird is the same shape as Indonesia.
92. Home Secretary Charles Clarke is to pass controversial "house arrest" legislation to keep Al Qaeda supremo Thora Hird incarcerated without trial to ensure the safety of these islands. However, the intelligence services have neglected to tell him that she's been dead for two years.
Add more.
Thursday Vote-No
I suppose you want to vote on one of my ever-decreasing folder of Scary Tales. OK then:
* Underneath the Arches: Classic blowing-things-up-woe
Vote-me-do!
Wednesday, February 23, 2005
The Great Blizzard of 2005
The Great Blizzard of 2005
"They've had four inches of snow in Winchester."*
To which I reply: "Have they bollocks."
Foolishly heeding dire warnings of snow, ice, white-outs and flesh-devouring mythical Arctic beasts, I set out for work this morning at the equally mythical 5a.m. to drive the 100 or so miles to Reading at the heart of the Tundra.
Not a flake. It rained a bit around Southampton, but that could equally have been seagull's piss, and the whole affair was only made marginally less dull by the obligatory bone-crunching crash on the opposite carriageway at Basingstoke. I can see their point, though:
"Look! Basingstoke!"
"Aaaaaaaargh!"
Any road up - it was a damn good thing I gave an extra two hours for the drive. I am now two hours early for work. Arse.
* The laws of comedy clearly state than any mention of "four inches" should be followed immediately by a nob gag. Huh. Huh huh. He said "four inches". Huh. Huh huh.
Speed Demon
The long arm of the law finally caught up with my father-in-law "Iron Boots" Ken as a speeding ticket arrived in the post the other day. However, he can avoid the fine and the three points on his licence by attending a half-day course on speeding. Basically, he's going to sit in some room with a bunch of Burberry-clad boy racers getting lectured by some desk-bound copper on the dangers of driving too fast.
His crime? Caught by a speed camera doing 36mph in a 30 zone. At 5.30 in the morning. On a moped. Stirling Moss would be turning in his grave.*
*If he was dead.
"They've had four inches of snow in Winchester."*
To which I reply: "Have they bollocks."
Foolishly heeding dire warnings of snow, ice, white-outs and flesh-devouring mythical Arctic beasts, I set out for work this morning at the equally mythical 5a.m. to drive the 100 or so miles to Reading at the heart of the Tundra.
Not a flake. It rained a bit around Southampton, but that could equally have been seagull's piss, and the whole affair was only made marginally less dull by the obligatory bone-crunching crash on the opposite carriageway at Basingstoke. I can see their point, though:
"Look! Basingstoke!"
"Aaaaaaaargh!"
Any road up - it was a damn good thing I gave an extra two hours for the drive. I am now two hours early for work. Arse.
* The laws of comedy clearly state than any mention of "four inches" should be followed immediately by a nob gag. Huh. Huh huh. He said "four inches". Huh. Huh huh.
Speed Demon
The long arm of the law finally caught up with my father-in-law "Iron Boots" Ken as a speeding ticket arrived in the post the other day. However, he can avoid the fine and the three points on his licence by attending a half-day course on speeding. Basically, he's going to sit in some room with a bunch of Burberry-clad boy racers getting lectured by some desk-bound copper on the dangers of driving too fast.
His crime? Caught by a speed camera doing 36mph in a 30 zone. At 5.30 in the morning. On a moped. Stirling Moss would be turning in his grave.*
*If he was dead.
Tuesday, February 22, 2005
On Weather
On Weather
Spending the last four days finishing off what Useless Workshy Cunt of a Builder started, I have found myself in the embarrassing position of listening to commercial radio rather more that is healthy. They have been having orgasms, dear reader, over the fact we might get a bit of snow round these parts.
Let us put this in perspective - it hasn't snowed in Weymouth since King George was on the throne. King George the Third. This is because - and it's uncanny that it's a major plot device employed by one of my favourite authors - we sacrifice the carnival queen to the Gods to guarantee good weather and a throng of tourists every year. The only snow you get round here is of the grated polystyrene type.
This is much like the pagan cultures who select their king of fools each year at some huge feast, treat him like a real king for a day then hang him from a tree bleeding from vital parts to ensure the safety of the village and a bumper crop the following year. In our case it’s the Ocean Room at the Weymouth Pavilion, and assorted hairdressers, college students and some girl from Portland with only one eye.
What happens to the “winner” of this event in the aftermath of the Carnival is anybody’s guess. However, I am led to believe they are fired out of the cannon at Nothe Fort straight up the mayor’s arse, which explains why he walks funny, and all that nasty business they had in town the year they voted in a lady mayor. Needless to say, you don’t see two carnival queens in the same room together, do you?
Don’t look at us - we’re just a bunch of soft southerners.
Spending the last four days finishing off what Useless Workshy Cunt of a Builder started, I have found myself in the embarrassing position of listening to commercial radio rather more that is healthy. They have been having orgasms, dear reader, over the fact we might get a bit of snow round these parts.
Let us put this in perspective - it hasn't snowed in Weymouth since King George was on the throne. King George the Third. This is because - and it's uncanny that it's a major plot device employed by one of my favourite authors - we sacrifice the carnival queen to the Gods to guarantee good weather and a throng of tourists every year. The only snow you get round here is of the grated polystyrene type.
This is much like the pagan cultures who select their king of fools each year at some huge feast, treat him like a real king for a day then hang him from a tree bleeding from vital parts to ensure the safety of the village and a bumper crop the following year. In our case it’s the Ocean Room at the Weymouth Pavilion, and assorted hairdressers, college students and some girl from Portland with only one eye.
What happens to the “winner” of this event in the aftermath of the Carnival is anybody’s guess. However, I am led to believe they are fired out of the cannon at Nothe Fort straight up the mayor’s arse, which explains why he walks funny, and all that nasty business they had in town the year they voted in a lady mayor. Needless to say, you don’t see two carnival queens in the same room together, do you?
Don’t look at us - we’re just a bunch of soft southerners.
Monday, February 21, 2005
Dentistry woe
Dentistry woe
A friend (trans: someone I met on the internet) recently confided in me his abject terror at visiting the dentist, blaming this on an unfortunate and painful incident involving painful root canal work. Dentists, he complained are routinely hairy South African rugger-buggers* who enjoy nothing more than inflicting pain and their hairy arms on sensitive home counties folk by way of belated revenge for the Boer War. And because they can.
If you're really lucky, your dentist may try a brand new treatment of his own devising, involving a tent peg and a length of piano wire. Fifty quid a shot.
So, for the particularly squeamish of you out there, I can recommend a very nice almost entirely hair-free dentist in Reading who has the habit of pressing her enormous cleavage into the side of your head whilst she does her worst with your mush. I must be the only person in the whole world with fond memories of having holes drilled in your teeth and pus sucked out through the cavities in a weekly basis.
On the down side, she did lean over slightly too far on one occasion, and it was several minutes before I was able to breathe again. A small inconvenience, I'm sure you'll agree. And if you'rewondering - Nation Health, too.
* However, I am certain that the lovely young ladies who read these pages would love to be directed towards a hairy South African rugger-bugger. More fool you.
Stats Whore
This week, my hit counter will rack up its 500,000th visitor. Will it be you? Free beer, money and sex (for me) if you win. For you, a warm glow inside.
A friend (trans: someone I met on the internet) recently confided in me his abject terror at visiting the dentist, blaming this on an unfortunate and painful incident involving painful root canal work. Dentists, he complained are routinely hairy South African rugger-buggers* who enjoy nothing more than inflicting pain and their hairy arms on sensitive home counties folk by way of belated revenge for the Boer War. And because they can.
If you're really lucky, your dentist may try a brand new treatment of his own devising, involving a tent peg and a length of piano wire. Fifty quid a shot.
So, for the particularly squeamish of you out there, I can recommend a very nice almost entirely hair-free dentist in Reading who has the habit of pressing her enormous cleavage into the side of your head whilst she does her worst with your mush. I must be the only person in the whole world with fond memories of having holes drilled in your teeth and pus sucked out through the cavities in a weekly basis.
On the down side, she did lean over slightly too far on one occasion, and it was several minutes before I was able to breathe again. A small inconvenience, I'm sure you'll agree. And if you'rewondering - Nation Health, too.
* However, I am certain that the lovely young ladies who read these pages would love to be directed towards a hairy South African rugger-bugger. More fool you.
Stats Whore
This week, my hit counter will rack up its 500,000th visitor. Will it be you? Free beer, money and sex (for me) if you win. For you, a warm glow inside.
Friday, February 18, 2005
Maurice the Mangler
Maurice the Mangler
As chosen by Zoe of My Boyfriend is a Twat, who once had a father-in-law called Maurice, proving for once and for all that nutters will always find nutters
How to get a haircut - a guide for teenagers:
- Sit on a kitchen chair with an old towel wrapped round your neck.
- Allow parent to put a large bowl on your head, and then cut off any hair that sticks out.
Voila! Instant retard!
I was under the impression that this approach would make me a fashion leader amongst my peers After all, I could ask Mum for any style I wanted, as long as it was No.1 bowl. It didn't.
"Hey! Scary! Tell us who cuts your hair - we can go round and beat up their guide dog."
After much badgering (with genuine badgers, country sports fans!) and a spectacular case of the sulks, Mum admitted defeat, unlocked the safe and sent us to a proper barber shop.
All the hard, street and "it" kids in my class at school went to a decent hairdresser to get their hair cut, and our class was filled with floppy fringes and smart haircuts epitomising the end of the seventies and the brash, new age that the 1980s would bring. My mother, on the other hand, sent us to Maurice the Mangler in Henley.
Maurice ran his business from what appeared to be a corridor on Bell Street, just opposite WH Smiths. There were two barber's chairs in the establishment, but I never saw another barber working there, ever, leading to local rumours of dirty work with a pair of clippers. Old men sat in his waiting area, waiting to die. Presumably Maurice had first dibs on any pie-filling shenanigans that followed.
"Aw mum, why do we have to go to the Mangler's?"
"Because he's cheap."
He hated kids. With a passion. He would sooner slaughter us and throw our twitching corpses into the Thames than cut our hair, but his threadbare outfit betrayed the fact that he needed the money. You sat there, daring not to move nor say a word, and then it was your turn. You had no choice. Sort back'n'sides with a frenzy that suggested a genetic link with Jack the Ripper, and turfed out into the street. And if you were lucky, there would be hardly any blood as a result of your scalping.
95p.
Less than a quid, and by God, you looked it. You could tell a fellow Maurice the Mangler victim a mile away, a lop-sided fringe and barely-healed nicks on the ear showing them up for the cheapskates that they were. Just yards up the road, a fiver would get you a cut-and-blow dry from a young lady with a bumpy chest, and if you were really lucky, a nice cup of tea into the bargain.
I once peered through the window, and my mate Ernie was there getting the skinning of his life, being waited on by at least three young ladies. At school the next day he announced that "you could see right up the sleeve-holes in her t-shirt. She had a bra an' everything." Good heavens.
If you were really lucky, you might get taken to the Wimpy (where I was once banned for asking the waitress for "A sachet of tomato ketchup and six straws please") for a proper almost posh knife and fork burger meal, or even across the road to the Regal Cinema, where they had a genuinely mad uniformed commissionaire who patrolled the aisles, threatening unruly kids like a man thrown out of the traffic wardens on health grounds.
I kept going back - voluntarily - well into my twenties, mainly because the only other barber shop I knew cost five times as much and was ten times worse. You knew where you stood with Maurice, even if it was just half an inch from certain death. I don't even know if he's still alive these days - he was in his fifties back then - let alone still trading. A pilgrimage is in order. If he is still there, it will go some way to explaining local MP Boris Johnson's devastating good looks.
Visiting his corridor of doom was an education, to say the least. As a boy, I learned a word from Maurice. This was a word plastered all over the mirrors in his shop and one day, one day soon, it's meaning would become very clear to me. Every couple of minutes while you sat under his icy cold glare, there'd come a tap at the shop's side window (the corridor neighboured a squalid alleyway frequented by dodgy looking ne'er-do-wells, shoe-shines and Fagin types). Maurice would stop what he was doing, open the window, and in exchange for a few coins, he would pass a small package out of the window.
The word, plastered in four-inch high letters all over his shop was "Durex" and I was experiencing, at first hand, the phenomenon of "Something for the Weekend".
In my innocence/stupidity, I thought it was some kind of hair gel, and wasn't entirely in on the joke at school.
Looking back now, I'm pretty certain that the comment "And then he put durex on my head" probably marked my card for several years to come.
As chosen by Zoe of My Boyfriend is a Twat, who once had a father-in-law called Maurice, proving for once and for all that nutters will always find nutters
How to get a haircut - a guide for teenagers:
- Sit on a kitchen chair with an old towel wrapped round your neck.
- Allow parent to put a large bowl on your head, and then cut off any hair that sticks out.
Voila! Instant retard!
I was under the impression that this approach would make me a fashion leader amongst my peers After all, I could ask Mum for any style I wanted, as long as it was No.1 bowl. It didn't.
"Hey! Scary! Tell us who cuts your hair - we can go round and beat up their guide dog."
After much badgering (with genuine badgers, country sports fans!) and a spectacular case of the sulks, Mum admitted defeat, unlocked the safe and sent us to a proper barber shop.
All the hard, street and "it" kids in my class at school went to a decent hairdresser to get their hair cut, and our class was filled with floppy fringes and smart haircuts epitomising the end of the seventies and the brash, new age that the 1980s would bring. My mother, on the other hand, sent us to Maurice the Mangler in Henley.
Maurice ran his business from what appeared to be a corridor on Bell Street, just opposite WH Smiths. There were two barber's chairs in the establishment, but I never saw another barber working there, ever, leading to local rumours of dirty work with a pair of clippers. Old men sat in his waiting area, waiting to die. Presumably Maurice had first dibs on any pie-filling shenanigans that followed.
"Aw mum, why do we have to go to the Mangler's?"
"Because he's cheap."
He hated kids. With a passion. He would sooner slaughter us and throw our twitching corpses into the Thames than cut our hair, but his threadbare outfit betrayed the fact that he needed the money. You sat there, daring not to move nor say a word, and then it was your turn. You had no choice. Sort back'n'sides with a frenzy that suggested a genetic link with Jack the Ripper, and turfed out into the street. And if you were lucky, there would be hardly any blood as a result of your scalping.
95p.
Less than a quid, and by God, you looked it. You could tell a fellow Maurice the Mangler victim a mile away, a lop-sided fringe and barely-healed nicks on the ear showing them up for the cheapskates that they were. Just yards up the road, a fiver would get you a cut-and-blow dry from a young lady with a bumpy chest, and if you were really lucky, a nice cup of tea into the bargain.
I once peered through the window, and my mate Ernie was there getting the skinning of his life, being waited on by at least three young ladies. At school the next day he announced that "you could see right up the sleeve-holes in her t-shirt. She had a bra an' everything." Good heavens.
If you were really lucky, you might get taken to the Wimpy (where I was once banned for asking the waitress for "A sachet of tomato ketchup and six straws please") for a proper almost posh knife and fork burger meal, or even across the road to the Regal Cinema, where they had a genuinely mad uniformed commissionaire who patrolled the aisles, threatening unruly kids like a man thrown out of the traffic wardens on health grounds.
I kept going back - voluntarily - well into my twenties, mainly because the only other barber shop I knew cost five times as much and was ten times worse. You knew where you stood with Maurice, even if it was just half an inch from certain death. I don't even know if he's still alive these days - he was in his fifties back then - let alone still trading. A pilgrimage is in order. If he is still there, it will go some way to explaining local MP Boris Johnson's devastating good looks.
Visiting his corridor of doom was an education, to say the least. As a boy, I learned a word from Maurice. This was a word plastered all over the mirrors in his shop and one day, one day soon, it's meaning would become very clear to me. Every couple of minutes while you sat under his icy cold glare, there'd come a tap at the shop's side window (the corridor neighboured a squalid alleyway frequented by dodgy looking ne'er-do-wells, shoe-shines and Fagin types). Maurice would stop what he was doing, open the window, and in exchange for a few coins, he would pass a small package out of the window.
The word, plastered in four-inch high letters all over his shop was "Durex" and I was experiencing, at first hand, the phenomenon of "Something for the Weekend".
In my innocence/stupidity, I thought it was some kind of hair gel, and wasn't entirely in on the joke at school.
Looking back now, I'm pretty certain that the comment "And then he put durex on my head" probably marked my card for several years to come.
Thursday, February 17, 2005
The Thursday vote-o: War Edition
The Thursday vote-o: War Edition
Medical woe
Good grief, I was sitting on the bog having a well-earned dump this morning when I noticed, to my horror, that I suffer from dandruff on my ballsack.
Is this normal, or have I got leprosy of the bollocks? More to the point is there a Head and Shoulders product I can use by way of a cure? Meat and Two Veg, perhaps.
If Princess Diana was alive today, I'd be nothing but a photo opportunity for her, I can tell you for nothing. I'd be lying, semi-conscious in my hospital bed, laid low by my flaky pods, defenceless against her scheming ways. She'd swan in, lay her healing hands on me while the photographer from Hello! snapped away, and fuck off to some island somewhere to grease up her latest millionaire playboy.
These days, what can I expect? Sophie Wessex, that's what, or a joyless hand shandy from Camilla Parker-Bowles. Or worse, Princess Anne and a truckload of Rottweilers. The world laughs at my misfortune.
Anybody else suffer from an embarrassing medical complaint that's good for a laugh?
 | Now that Zoe's fighting dirty, I have extended the hand of friendship and have allowed her to choose tomorrow's Scary Story, without even asking for a picture of her arse, hardly at all. However, because she posted THAT picture, which cannot be forgiven, I have knocked out one of my own. Alternatives: click-me-do and click-ston. |
Good grief, I was sitting on the bog having a well-earned dump this morning when I noticed, to my horror, that I suffer from dandruff on my ballsack.
Is this normal, or have I got leprosy of the bollocks? More to the point is there a Head and Shoulders product I can use by way of a cure? Meat and Two Veg, perhaps.
If Princess Diana was alive today, I'd be nothing but a photo opportunity for her, I can tell you for nothing. I'd be lying, semi-conscious in my hospital bed, laid low by my flaky pods, defenceless against her scheming ways. She'd swan in, lay her healing hands on me while the photographer from Hello! snapped away, and fuck off to some island somewhere to grease up her latest millionaire playboy.
These days, what can I expect? Sophie Wessex, that's what, or a joyless hand shandy from Camilla Parker-Bowles. Or worse, Princess Anne and a truckload of Rottweilers. The world laughs at my misfortune.
Anybody else suffer from an embarrassing medical complaint that's good for a laugh?
Wednesday, February 16, 2005
The War on Belgium
What is it good for?
Following what will now be referred to as "the Unfortunate Birthday Incident", we regret to announce that war is hereby declared on My Boyfriend is a Twat for the following reasons:
a) daring to suggest, with malice aforethought, that I am, in fact, 43 years old.
b) living in Belgium
c) sending the dregs of the internet over here to look at my arse.
The forces of righteousness have been mobilised, not to mention the Penguin Liberation Army, so we're all doomed.
I'll have Zoe running for the hills before she knows what's hit her. And seeing that she lives in Belgium, the nearest hills are blummin' miles away. Riled up? You bet I am.
This war is only over until somebody gets their arse out on the internet. And it's not going to be me. You wouldn't want it to be me.
Crack suicide squad (that's you, by the way) - go get 'em!
Oz
As promised, Scary birthday woe, with added Australians.
Up before the lark at some god-awful hour to drive 110 miles to work. This after being woken in the middle of the night by both Scary Dogs going mental in the back garden at two in the morning, for which they are severely chastised. Then I trod in a doggy chocolate surprise (bare feet), for which their was further chastisement.
In this wonderful mood, I arrive at work to take my visiting Aussie equivalents on a tour of the facility. This included a trip out to our remote site, somewhere in the Oxfordshire countryside. This was the scene of many a working hour barbecue, before the management found out and modern technology got the better of staff numbers.
Down to the field we went to look our impressive array of satellite dishes and very, very long radio antennae. Tom Baker fell off one of these dishes in his last ever Dr Who episode, he said, dropping names.
"And that pond over there? Chitty Chitty Bang Bang." And we're not talking the Thai porn movie, either.
Then there was this bull.
In fact, there was this bloody huge bull.
Big, randy, and taking a good long look at my bright red jumper, bollocks swaying in the breeze. The Bull's bollocks were swinging in the breeze as well. It's mate, another equally large huge-bollocked bull sidled over, and both stared at me as if to say "Hump it. Hump it hard."
I had absolutely no desire to get rogered to death by a bull, not least on my birthday. And the thought of becoming bovine sloppy seconds was the clincher. And naturally, there was thedelicate matter of UK-Australian relations to consider. Transported to the colonies - it didn't bare thinking about.
"Leg it."
*cue Benny Hill theme*
"You're not getting in my car with cow crap all over your feet."
Oh, spoons. And only five miles back to the office...
Life imitates duck
"Dog Poker" pictures sell for $600k. And you think I make up this crap.
Following what will now be referred to as "the Unfortunate Birthday Incident", we regret to announce that war is hereby declared on My Boyfriend is a Twat for the following reasons:
a) daring to suggest, with malice aforethought, that I am, in fact, 43 years old.
b) living in Belgium
c) sending the dregs of the internet over here to look at my arse.
The forces of righteousness have been mobilised, not to mention the Penguin Liberation Army, so we're all doomed.
I'll have Zoe running for the hills before she knows what's hit her. And seeing that she lives in Belgium, the nearest hills are blummin' miles away. Riled up? You bet I am.
This war is only over until somebody gets their arse out on the internet. And it's not going to be me. You wouldn't want it to be me.
Crack suicide squad (that's you, by the way) - go get 'em!
Oz
As promised, Scary birthday woe, with added Australians.
Up before the lark at some god-awful hour to drive 110 miles to work. This after being woken in the middle of the night by both Scary Dogs going mental in the back garden at two in the morning, for which they are severely chastised. Then I trod in a doggy chocolate surprise (bare feet), for which their was further chastisement.
In this wonderful mood, I arrive at work to take my visiting Aussie equivalents on a tour of the facility. This included a trip out to our remote site, somewhere in the Oxfordshire countryside. This was the scene of many a working hour barbecue, before the management found out and modern technology got the better of staff numbers.
Down to the field we went to look our impressive array of satellite dishes and very, very long radio antennae. Tom Baker fell off one of these dishes in his last ever Dr Who episode, he said, dropping names.
"And that pond over there? Chitty Chitty Bang Bang." And we're not talking the Thai porn movie, either.
Then there was this bull.
In fact, there was this bloody huge bull.
Big, randy, and taking a good long look at my bright red jumper, bollocks swaying in the breeze. The Bull's bollocks were swinging in the breeze as well. It's mate, another equally large huge-bollocked bull sidled over, and both stared at me as if to say "Hump it. Hump it hard."
I had absolutely no desire to get rogered to death by a bull, not least on my birthday. And the thought of becoming bovine sloppy seconds was the clincher. And naturally, there was thedelicate matter of UK-Australian relations to consider. Transported to the colonies - it didn't bare thinking about.
"Leg it."
*cue Benny Hill theme*
"You're not getting in my car with cow crap all over your feet."
Oh, spoons. And only five miles back to the office...
Life imitates duck
"Dog Poker" pictures sell for $600k. And you think I make up this crap.
Tuesday, February 15, 2005
Oh the shame: Bonus woe
Oh, the shame
Today is my 39th birthday, which will be spent in the rather acceptable company of Australians. Send money and cake. By way of celebration, I present some lovely bonus birthday woe, as posted to a recent b3ta discussion thread on local newspaper appearances. Pretty woeful, I think you'll find.
I was photographed by the Henley Standard as a youth, promoting membership for our Air Cadet squadron. "Join the Spacers - you'll look dead hard and we even let you have GUNS!" It was this: aces.
They put me on the front page, wearing an RAF pilot's helmet, sitting in an old ejector seat out of a Canberra bomber and pretending to pull the release cord. It was the whole "Up up and away, tally ho chaps" full nine yards, and frankly, I looked as nails.
Open up the paper, however, and on page three they had a similar sized picture of some cerebral palsy kid denied a head-dobber by the NHS. He had been photographed in his electric wheelchair, belming away in EXACTLY the same pose as my front page masterpiece, right down to the protective headgear. The bastards.
Fuck me, there were some letters in the following week's edition. I believe I was labeled "an arrogant gun-toting crypto-fascist" by some of the more sensitive readers. Some people still think I might be related to Joey Deacon.
No photos, I'm afraid, as I have made it my life's work to track down and destroy every last copy.
Another dodgy link exchange request, this time from these people. Do you think I should?
Today is my 39th birthday, which will be spent in the rather acceptable company of Australians. Send money and cake. By way of celebration, I present some lovely bonus birthday woe, as posted to a recent b3ta discussion thread on local newspaper appearances. Pretty woeful, I think you'll find.
I was photographed by the Henley Standard as a youth, promoting membership for our Air Cadet squadron. "Join the Spacers - you'll look dead hard and we even let you have GUNS!" It was this: aces.
They put me on the front page, wearing an RAF pilot's helmet, sitting in an old ejector seat out of a Canberra bomber and pretending to pull the release cord. It was the whole "Up up and away, tally ho chaps" full nine yards, and frankly, I looked as nails.
Open up the paper, however, and on page three they had a similar sized picture of some cerebral palsy kid denied a head-dobber by the NHS. He had been photographed in his electric wheelchair, belming away in EXACTLY the same pose as my front page masterpiece, right down to the protective headgear. The bastards.
Fuck me, there were some letters in the following week's edition. I believe I was labeled "an arrogant gun-toting crypto-fascist" by some of the more sensitive readers. Some people still think I might be related to Joey Deacon.
No photos, I'm afraid, as I have made it my life's work to track down and destroy every last copy.
Another dodgy link exchange request, this time from these people. Do you think I should?
Monday, February 14, 2005
Situation Vacant
Situation Vacant: Royal dipstick
Gerry in another place quite rightly points out that when Prince Charles marries Dobbin, he'll not only be gaining a wife, but will also be creating a vacancy for the exceptionally taxing post of Royal Mistress.
I know what you're thinking, and it's this: "The manky old git."But it works both ways. Mrs Parker-Bowles has not only spent the last three decades engaged in furtive how's-you-father with Prince Charles, but aslo living with the very real fear that the door might burst open at any moment to an enraged Duke of Edinburgh or a scissor-wielding Princess Diana. Or, quite possibly, both.
She's used to the thrill of illicit humping, and now those days are over. What's she going to do with herself now she's resigned to a life of opening hospital wards and sitting in committees filled with well-meaning middle-aged women helping "those poor cripples and orphans in Africa".
Take a good look at this picture, in which, even at the age of 57, you can clearly see two puppies fighting in a sack. Now ask yourself: dare you answer that small ad in The Times? "Must like, be hung like, horses."
Gerry in another place quite rightly points out that when Prince Charles marries Dobbin, he'll not only be gaining a wife, but will also be creating a vacancy for the exceptionally taxing post of Royal Mistress.
I know what you're thinking, and it's this: "The manky old git."But it works both ways. Mrs Parker-Bowles has not only spent the last three decades engaged in furtive how's-you-father with Prince Charles, but aslo living with the very real fear that the door might burst open at any moment to an enraged Duke of Edinburgh or a scissor-wielding Princess Diana. Or, quite possibly, both.
She's used to the thrill of illicit humping, and now those days are over. What's she going to do with herself now she's resigned to a life of opening hospital wards and sitting in committees filled with well-meaning middle-aged women helping "those poor cripples and orphans in Africa".
Take a good look at this picture, in which, even at the age of 57, you can clearly see two puppies fighting in a sack. Now ask yourself: dare you answer that small ad in The Times? "Must like, be hung like, horses."
Saturday, February 12, 2005
Public Service Information
Public Service Information
By way of a response to the person who visited this website searching for a solution to the question 'How many times does a duck poo per day?', I can exclusively reveal that the answer is this: "Fucked if I know".
Look, if it helps, I've been once today; and just for your sake, I'll keep a tally. Happy now?
By way of a response to the person who visited this website searching for a solution to the question 'How many times does a duck poo per day?', I can exclusively reveal that the answer is this: "Fucked if I know".
Look, if it helps, I've been once today; and just for your sake, I'll keep a tally. Happy now?
Friday, February 11, 2005
Scatalogical Manouevres in the Dark
Scatalogical Manouevres in the Dark
I was in the Air Cadets. We were as hard as nails, or so we thought - we could give those bastards in the sea cadets a right kicking whenever we wanted, on account of their flared trousers. It all went a bit shit-faced, however, when one of our number pissed on our fireworks by taking a pot-shot at the Queen with a starting pistol and got sent down for treason. After that, for some reason, the powers-that-be thought we were all homicidal nutters and banned us from carrying real guns in public.
Instead, we spent long hours working in the squadron's workshop knocking out guns out of scrap wood (I made a stunningly accurate Uzi sub-machine gun that would probably get me shot in the street these days), which we would then charge around the local woods with shouting "NanaNANANANA!" like Private Pike from Dad's Army.
Up the woods we went, then, all wooden Tommy Guns and combat uniforms for some silly-bugger war games which basically involved tramping about in the dark and a big fight where those of us with wooden Uzis would charge out of the trees shouting "NanaNANANANA!" like Private Pike.
The future of Western civilisation depended entirely on balanced individuals such as ourselves graduating from the cadet corps to the full-time armed services. The Red Army must have been shitting themselves. Brings a tear to the eye, doesn't it?
"Time to black up, lads", said the CO.
For those of us who took the whole charging about with wooden Tommy Guns thing very seriously, this was the time to break out the green and brown face creams to make up their faces like a bunch of military divas. The rest of us used nature's make-up - a big big dollop of mud smeared all over exposed skin to make us look like a cut-price Black and White Minstrel troupe.
Now here comes the crucial bit...
Unfortunately, I hadn't quite got my night-sight, and in the pitch black of night, it was difficult to make out that my big dollop of mud wasn't entirely mud.
You see, the woods above Henley are popular amongst dog walkers, and my handful of Mother Nature's face-pack contained 100 per cent pure dog shit. And I didn't notice until it was far, far too late.
...and the whole fucking issue was covered in shit.
I think the politest comment I got that evening came from the CO's wife, a nurse who worked in the local casualty unit who had seen more or less everything that can be inserted into the human body*: "Fucking hell Scary, you smell like shit."
Happily, my comrades took pity on me, and helped me clean it off before we returned to base that evening. The River Thames at Henley isn't really that deep, you know. But as the Sea Cadets fished me out in their little jolly boat, I promised never to take the piss out of their bell-bottomed trousers ever again. For at least a week.
* Two stories for the price of one, courtesy of Mrs CO:
I was working on a day shift when this incredibly posh woman staggered in, demanding to be seen in a hurry. We weren't that busy, and we didn't want to create a scene, so we took her straight to a cubicle where she explained her dilemma.
"I was dusting the pelmet with no knickers on, when I slipped and landed on a statuette of Admiral Lord Horatio Nelson. Please don't tell my husband."
She let us have a look. Lord Nelson was stuck fast, right up to the hilt. It took three of us working in shifts and gallons of KY Jelly to get him out. She was more worried about her husband arriving home and finding no dinner on the table than the fact that she was walking like John Wayne.
You'll be pleased to hear that we followed hospital procedure to the letter by not laughing in front of the patient, even when the words "Try to relax a little. Think of the sea" were met with a volley of gutter-mouthed abuse you wouldn't have thought possible from a person of that breeding.
"How did you get here?" I asked.
"In a taxi."
The speed bumps must have been hell.
I admit defeat. The Wanking Nightmare [Achtung! Page contains gross-out images] story on this page just made me crap myself with laughter. Geniarse.
I was in the Air Cadets. We were as hard as nails, or so we thought - we could give those bastards in the sea cadets a right kicking whenever we wanted, on account of their flared trousers. It all went a bit shit-faced, however, when one of our number pissed on our fireworks by taking a pot-shot at the Queen with a starting pistol and got sent down for treason. After that, for some reason, the powers-that-be thought we were all homicidal nutters and banned us from carrying real guns in public.
Instead, we spent long hours working in the squadron's workshop knocking out guns out of scrap wood (I made a stunningly accurate Uzi sub-machine gun that would probably get me shot in the street these days), which we would then charge around the local woods with shouting "NanaNANANANA!" like Private Pike from Dad's Army.
Up the woods we went, then, all wooden Tommy Guns and combat uniforms for some silly-bugger war games which basically involved tramping about in the dark and a big fight where those of us with wooden Uzis would charge out of the trees shouting "NanaNANANANA!" like Private Pike.
The future of Western civilisation depended entirely on balanced individuals such as ourselves graduating from the cadet corps to the full-time armed services. The Red Army must have been shitting themselves. Brings a tear to the eye, doesn't it?
"Time to black up, lads", said the CO.
For those of us who took the whole charging about with wooden Tommy Guns thing very seriously, this was the time to break out the green and brown face creams to make up their faces like a bunch of military divas. The rest of us used nature's make-up - a big big dollop of mud smeared all over exposed skin to make us look like a cut-price Black and White Minstrel troupe.
Now here comes the crucial bit...
Unfortunately, I hadn't quite got my night-sight, and in the pitch black of night, it was difficult to make out that my big dollop of mud wasn't entirely mud.
You see, the woods above Henley are popular amongst dog walkers, and my handful of Mother Nature's face-pack contained 100 per cent pure dog shit. And I didn't notice until it was far, far too late.
...and the whole fucking issue was covered in shit.
I think the politest comment I got that evening came from the CO's wife, a nurse who worked in the local casualty unit who had seen more or less everything that can be inserted into the human body*: "Fucking hell Scary, you smell like shit."
Happily, my comrades took pity on me, and helped me clean it off before we returned to base that evening. The River Thames at Henley isn't really that deep, you know. But as the Sea Cadets fished me out in their little jolly boat, I promised never to take the piss out of their bell-bottomed trousers ever again. For at least a week.
* Two stories for the price of one, courtesy of Mrs CO:
I was working on a day shift when this incredibly posh woman staggered in, demanding to be seen in a hurry. We weren't that busy, and we didn't want to create a scene, so we took her straight to a cubicle where she explained her dilemma.
"I was dusting the pelmet with no knickers on, when I slipped and landed on a statuette of Admiral Lord Horatio Nelson. Please don't tell my husband."
She let us have a look. Lord Nelson was stuck fast, right up to the hilt. It took three of us working in shifts and gallons of KY Jelly to get him out. She was more worried about her husband arriving home and finding no dinner on the table than the fact that she was walking like John Wayne.
You'll be pleased to hear that we followed hospital procedure to the letter by not laughing in front of the patient, even when the words "Try to relax a little. Think of the sea" were met with a volley of gutter-mouthed abuse you wouldn't have thought possible from a person of that breeding.
"How did you get here?" I asked.
"In a taxi."
The speed bumps must have been hell.
I admit defeat. The Wanking Nightmare [Achtung! Page contains gross-out images] story on this page just made me crap myself with laughter. Geniarse.
Thursday, February 10, 2005
A Tribute to Prince "Plunger" Windsor
The Prince "Plunger" Windsor Memorial Vote-o
I suppose, falling out of bed at ten o'clock this morning to find that Prince Charles is to marry a horse, that we ought to take time out to pay tribute to that special place in our hearts taken by our very own Royal Family. The bunch of bastards.
So, let me be the first to say of the forthcoming wedding between the heir to the throne and the winner of the 1977 Grand National: Do we get the day off work?
Your votes, please, for the following Scary Stories:
* Haunted Holiday - So, I met Prince Charles the other day
* Underneath the Arches - And I asked him about his main squeeze, Mrs Parker-Bowles
* Cubs' Camp - "Sir," I said, "How's Camilla?"
* Scatalogical Manouevres in the Dark - He looked at me quizically, before grinning like Fred West
* Maurice the Mangler - "Really firm and fruity, how about your's?"
The dirty old man, I'd vote him for King. Vote-me-do!
I suppose, falling out of bed at ten o'clock this morning to find that Prince Charles is to marry a horse, that we ought to take time out to pay tribute to that special place in our hearts taken by our very own Royal Family. The bunch of bastards.
So, let me be the first to say of the forthcoming wedding between the heir to the throne and the winner of the 1977 Grand National: Do we get the day off work?
Your votes, please, for the following Scary Stories:
* Haunted Holiday - So, I met Prince Charles the other day
* Underneath the Arches - And I asked him about his main squeeze, Mrs Parker-Bowles
* Cubs' Camp - "Sir," I said, "How's Camilla?"
* Scatalogical Manouevres in the Dark - He looked at me quizically, before grinning like Fred West
* Maurice the Mangler - "Really firm and fruity, how about your's?"
The dirty old man, I'd vote him for King. Vote-me-do!
Wednesday, February 09, 2005
Call me "Ace"
Clock-up news
I read on Popbitch the other day (so it must be true) that in the traumatic final days of her record round-the-world solo voyage "Dame" Ellen MacArthur was forced to sacrifice the batteries in her vibrator because she needed them to power important point-and-shoot sailing gubbins. Poor the Dame Ellen. Squillions of pounds worth of boat, state-of-the-art navigation systems and all the webcams the committed exhibitionist will ever need, and the nearest convenience store is in Uruguay.
If there is any truth in this sorry tale, it looks like there's a gap in the wind-up appliances market that Trevor Bayliss missed. Radios - what the hell was he thinking about? There must be millions of women out there, cross-eyed with frustration because there's nary a Duracell to be had in the house and the super-fast spin on the washing machine's knackered again*. They don't call them clockwork cucumbers for nothing, y'know.
*This is why they hardly ever show the launderette in EastEnders these days - they have to lever Fat Pat off the machinery with a crowbar, and this is all Trevor's fault.
Call me 'Ace'
I now know - to my cost - that my colleagues read these pages with a terrified fascination and a determination to found out what it is that makes me so skill. Hello. Now get on with your work. Just because I appear to be idle does not mean I am not hard at it.
Like the duck of the Lord's creation, I am seemingly calm on the surface, but paddling away like buggery below the waterline. And that is exactly what is happening at my desk, nothing more, nothing less. Only without all that messy below-the-waistline business.
So, it has come as a pleasant surprise to be addressed as "Ace" by not one, but two of my colleagues. This can only be interpreted an endorsement of my unusual and exceptional talents that I can only encourage, and not taking the piss in any way whatsoever. I have been assured that this is "Ace" in the highly-skilled context, and not "complete and utter sad bastard" along the lines of the Ace Rimmer character from Red Dwarf. I'm glad we sorted that out.
However, I would like my colleagues to refrain from pushing the Red Dwarf analogy any further, and would therefore encourage them not to use the phrase "Ace Hole". This can only lead to one thing: woe.
I read on Popbitch the other day (so it must be true) that in the traumatic final days of her record round-the-world solo voyage "Dame" Ellen MacArthur was forced to sacrifice the batteries in her vibrator because she needed them to power important point-and-shoot sailing gubbins. Poor the Dame Ellen. Squillions of pounds worth of boat, state-of-the-art navigation systems and all the webcams the committed exhibitionist will ever need, and the nearest convenience store is in Uruguay.
If there is any truth in this sorry tale, it looks like there's a gap in the wind-up appliances market that Trevor Bayliss missed. Radios - what the hell was he thinking about? There must be millions of women out there, cross-eyed with frustration because there's nary a Duracell to be had in the house and the super-fast spin on the washing machine's knackered again*. They don't call them clockwork cucumbers for nothing, y'know.
*This is why they hardly ever show the launderette in EastEnders these days - they have to lever Fat Pat off the machinery with a crowbar, and this is all Trevor's fault.
Call me 'Ace'
I now know - to my cost - that my colleagues read these pages with a terrified fascination and a determination to found out what it is that makes me so skill. Hello. Now get on with your work. Just because I appear to be idle does not mean I am not hard at it.
Like the duck of the Lord's creation, I am seemingly calm on the surface, but paddling away like buggery below the waterline. And that is exactly what is happening at my desk, nothing more, nothing less. Only without all that messy below-the-waistline business.
So, it has come as a pleasant surprise to be addressed as "Ace" by not one, but two of my colleagues. This can only be interpreted an endorsement of my unusual and exceptional talents that I can only encourage, and not taking the piss in any way whatsoever. I have been assured that this is "Ace" in the highly-skilled context, and not "complete and utter sad bastard" along the lines of the Ace Rimmer character from Red Dwarf. I'm glad we sorted that out.
However, I would like my colleagues to refrain from pushing the Red Dwarf analogy any further, and would therefore encourage them not to use the phrase "Ace Hole". This can only lead to one thing: woe.
Tuesday, February 08, 2005
History Repeating, Again
History Repeating, Again
I've been reading an account of the Indian Mutiny of 1857, where Indian troops, angered by perceived insults to their religion and way of life, rose up against their British colonial masters and embarked on an orgy of violence and death that was put down with equal brutality by the colonial government and loyal soldiers.
The causes of the mutiny were many, but at the heart of it was the creeping Anglicization of India, and in particular, the Indian battalions of the army.
While Britain had contented itself with the exploitation of India and its resources while respecting the way of life of its subjects, they lived under an uneasy truce. There were many mixed marriages, and the Anglo-Indian relationship was more-or-less friendly, if utterly unequal. When Victorian missionaries set out with a God-given zeal to bring "Christian Truth to the savages", they were less than impressed with this slight on their already well-entrenched religious practices.
The straw that broke the camel's back, as any history scholar will tell you, was the encasing of rifle cartridges in an unspecified animal fat, a taboo against the sepoys' religious sensibilities [the rumour spread like wildfire - the Hindus feared it was beef fat, the Muslims were convinced it was pork]. The mutiny was brutal, bloody and a much need lesson in the foolhardiness of colonial arrogance and the unwanted imposition of one culture onto another.
There then followed the equally brutal purging of the mutineers - villages raised to the ground, hundreds of bodies hung from trees, unfortunates tied over thre mouths of cannons and blown apart, the whole nine yards that gave colonialism such a good name. Collectve punishment "the Devil's Wind", for a short time, became a way of life, and thousands died as the British reimposed their authority.
But what have we learned? In 2005, I look at Iraq. Once again, Britain is involved, but now the Empire that dare not speak its name is American. An Empire that will work its hardest to impose its Christian Fundamentalist ideology on the rest of the world in the name of liberty, democracy, and learning much from the British Empire, shipping their raw goods back to the Fatherland.
From the mouth of the President: "The survival of liberty in our land increasingly depends on the success of [American] liberty in other lands". That's fighting talk, the sound of a nation exporting American ideals to the rest of the world whether they want it or not. The Founding Fathers' warnings on foreign entanglements and the long-standing Monroe Doctrine long since killed off, the Bush doctrine is one of moulding the planet into a copy of Reagan's shining city on a hill, by force if necessary.
And how does this work in practice? By blood.
Fallujah bears so many parallels to the events of 1857. Spurning the Colonials' kind offer to Americanize Iraq with democracy and decent Christian values, the natives revolted, making the mistake of butchering highly paid American missionaries (sorry, mercenaries) and hanging their various pieces from a bridge. The Indian Sepoys' rage mirrored in Arab rage at US blindness to their culture, religion and society.
Naturally, the sight of this impertinence from an ungrateful population signed the city's death sentence, and the Colonials, having to be seen to be in charge took the place to pieces in the kind of collective punishment not seen since the days of Stalin and Hitler, and contrary to the fourth article of the Geneva Convention.
For its affront, for its very defiance in the face of the liberating forces of American kindness, the entire city was destroyed, its inhabitants forced to live in a tented wilderness as bodies lie rotting in the streets, food for carrion birds and rabid dogs. As the Colonial forces continues its doomed battle to win hearts and minds, there will be other Fallujahs, other pitched battles as the Iraqi sepoys eventually rise up against their arrogant, uncaring masters.
Then, in a mockery of the political process, they set up a polling centre amongst the ruins and called it democracy.
The only difference between 1857 and 2005 is that the British Empire learned from its mistakes (not much, granted), and the greatest lesson it learned was that it could never win a final victory. Wars waged in Afghanistan and Africa showed that military might and economic clout just aren't the same thing. It was, after all, the British who pioneered concentration camps in South Africa during a war waged against the Boers solely to remove the local population from valuable gold-bearing land for the benefit of fat-cat millionaires. Plus ca change, and all that.
History showed the British Empire's decline and fall, unable to compete with the strain of global war and the rise of political and economic power elsewhere. Sacrificing itself to prevent German and Japanese empires that would have been many times worse than anything British colonialists ever wrought upon their subjects, the baton was grasped from its hand by a new Empire. It is America's turn.
[This subject is discussed in greater detail in the Speak Your Brains section below.]
I've been reading an account of the Indian Mutiny of 1857, where Indian troops, angered by perceived insults to their religion and way of life, rose up against their British colonial masters and embarked on an orgy of violence and death that was put down with equal brutality by the colonial government and loyal soldiers.
The causes of the mutiny were many, but at the heart of it was the creeping Anglicization of India, and in particular, the Indian battalions of the army.
While Britain had contented itself with the exploitation of India and its resources while respecting the way of life of its subjects, they lived under an uneasy truce. There were many mixed marriages, and the Anglo-Indian relationship was more-or-less friendly, if utterly unequal. When Victorian missionaries set out with a God-given zeal to bring "Christian Truth to the savages", they were less than impressed with this slight on their already well-entrenched religious practices.
The straw that broke the camel's back, as any history scholar will tell you, was the encasing of rifle cartridges in an unspecified animal fat, a taboo against the sepoys' religious sensibilities [the rumour spread like wildfire - the Hindus feared it was beef fat, the Muslims were convinced it was pork]. The mutiny was brutal, bloody and a much need lesson in the foolhardiness of colonial arrogance and the unwanted imposition of one culture onto another.
There then followed the equally brutal purging of the mutineers - villages raised to the ground, hundreds of bodies hung from trees, unfortunates tied over thre mouths of cannons and blown apart, the whole nine yards that gave colonialism such a good name. Collectve punishment "the Devil's Wind", for a short time, became a way of life, and thousands died as the British reimposed their authority.
But what have we learned? In 2005, I look at Iraq. Once again, Britain is involved, but now the Empire that dare not speak its name is American. An Empire that will work its hardest to impose its Christian Fundamentalist ideology on the rest of the world in the name of liberty, democracy, and learning much from the British Empire, shipping their raw goods back to the Fatherland.
From the mouth of the President: "The survival of liberty in our land increasingly depends on the success of [American] liberty in other lands". That's fighting talk, the sound of a nation exporting American ideals to the rest of the world whether they want it or not. The Founding Fathers' warnings on foreign entanglements and the long-standing Monroe Doctrine long since killed off, the Bush doctrine is one of moulding the planet into a copy of Reagan's shining city on a hill, by force if necessary.
And how does this work in practice? By blood.
Fallujah bears so many parallels to the events of 1857. Spurning the Colonials' kind offer to Americanize Iraq with democracy and decent Christian values, the natives revolted, making the mistake of butchering highly paid American missionaries (sorry, mercenaries) and hanging their various pieces from a bridge. The Indian Sepoys' rage mirrored in Arab rage at US blindness to their culture, religion and society.
Naturally, the sight of this impertinence from an ungrateful population signed the city's death sentence, and the Colonials, having to be seen to be in charge took the place to pieces in the kind of collective punishment not seen since the days of Stalin and Hitler, and contrary to the fourth article of the Geneva Convention.
For its affront, for its very defiance in the face of the liberating forces of American kindness, the entire city was destroyed, its inhabitants forced to live in a tented wilderness as bodies lie rotting in the streets, food for carrion birds and rabid dogs. As the Colonial forces continues its doomed battle to win hearts and minds, there will be other Fallujahs, other pitched battles as the Iraqi sepoys eventually rise up against their arrogant, uncaring masters.
Then, in a mockery of the political process, they set up a polling centre amongst the ruins and called it democracy.
The only difference between 1857 and 2005 is that the British Empire learned from its mistakes (not much, granted), and the greatest lesson it learned was that it could never win a final victory. Wars waged in Afghanistan and Africa showed that military might and economic clout just aren't the same thing. It was, after all, the British who pioneered concentration camps in South Africa during a war waged against the Boers solely to remove the local population from valuable gold-bearing land for the benefit of fat-cat millionaires. Plus ca change, and all that.
History showed the British Empire's decline and fall, unable to compete with the strain of global war and the rise of political and economic power elsewhere. Sacrificing itself to prevent German and Japanese empires that would have been many times worse than anything British colonialists ever wrought upon their subjects, the baton was grasped from its hand by a new Empire. It is America's turn.
[This subject is discussed in greater detail in the Speak Your Brains section below.]
Monday, February 07, 2005
Inappropriate Movie Sequels
Inappropriate Movie Sequels
In the not-a-cash-in-at-all sequel "The Return of Spinal Tap", film director Marty DeBerghi reveals he is on his uppers and is working on a movie project - the all-action tear-jerker Kramer vs Kramer vs Godzilla.
It struck me that there's a whole crate-load of movies out there, ready to fill the bargain bins at your local Bolockbuster*, if only Hollywood was brave enough to make them.
Who needs good taste when the working title for "Monty Python's Life of Brian" was "Jesus: Lust for Glory"?
- Schindler's List 3-D - with extra Nazis!
- Anne Frank: The Musical (featuring the song "Behind the Wardrobe of Desire")**
- Harry Potter and the Hairy Ball-Sack
- 103 Dalmations: Dogging Frenzy
- Gorillas in the Mist 2: Going Ape Shit
- More Fight Club - "This time with sticks!"
- Alien vs Predator vs Winnie-the-Pooh - "This time it's for keeps. And hunny."
- Star Wars: The Phantom Menace
Now that Ocean's Twelve has just hit our screens to follow up on the success of Ocean's Eleven, could somebody please tell me what happened to Ocean's One to Ten? And did you need special glasses to watch the third one?
Suggest-me-do!
* See Friday's bloggage for explanation
** First class ticket to Hell, please
Meanwhile...
Over on Robber Rabbit: Pope's health takes turn for worse.
In the not-a-cash-in-at-all sequel "The Return of Spinal Tap", film director Marty DeBerghi reveals he is on his uppers and is working on a movie project - the all-action tear-jerker Kramer vs Kramer vs Godzilla.
It struck me that there's a whole crate-load of movies out there, ready to fill the bargain bins at your local Bolockbuster*, if only Hollywood was brave enough to make them.
Who needs good taste when the working title for "Monty Python's Life of Brian" was "Jesus: Lust for Glory"?
- Schindler's List 3-D - with extra Nazis!
- Anne Frank: The Musical (featuring the song "Behind the Wardrobe of Desire")**
- Harry Potter and the Hairy Ball-Sack
- 103 Dalmations: Dogging Frenzy
- Gorillas in the Mist 2: Going Ape Shit
- More Fight Club - "This time with sticks!"
- Alien vs Predator vs Winnie-the-Pooh - "This time it's for keeps. And hunny."
- Star Wars: The Phantom Menace
Now that Ocean's Twelve has just hit our screens to follow up on the success of Ocean's Eleven, could somebody please tell me what happened to Ocean's One to Ten? And did you need special glasses to watch the third one?
Suggest-me-do!
* See Friday's bloggage for explanation
** First class ticket to Hell, please
Meanwhile...
Over on Robber Rabbit: Pope's health takes turn for worse.
Saturday, February 05, 2005
Apocalypse Now: The Director's Cut. With extra dinosaurs
Apocalypse Now: The Director's Cut. With extra dinosaurs
At last, something the civilised world has been waiting for. A version of Apocalypse Now (officially the worst movie ever made, according to not-mental-at-all Scaryduck readers) that I'd pay good money to see.
I was unaware of Reese Witherspoon's contribution to cinema history, but, as they say, live and learn.
Clicky or bigger clicky.
At last, something the civilised world has been waiting for. A version of Apocalypse Now (officially the worst movie ever made, according to not-mental-at-all Scaryduck readers) that I'd pay good money to see.
I was unaware of Reese Witherspoon's contribution to cinema history, but, as they say, live and learn.
Clicky or bigger clicky.
Friday, February 04, 2005
Special: Bus woe
Special
My sister - who sometimes reads these pages, and is therefore a most wonderful, caring person who never once attempted to drown me in the school swimming pool; or never, ever tried to teach the dog to go for my throat - now has her dream job.
With two degrees in Greek History and Sociology (or something equally worthy gained from an adulthood almost totally devoid of torturing younger brothers), and after a lifetime in unrewarding careers such as roadie to the stars, university Ents Committee big cheese and record shop manager, she now works in the kind of career that you and I can only fantasise about. In fact, she's had it for some time, I've just never got round to mention it.
And what a job!
My sister, who never, ever once went for me with evil, lunging talons, leaving me scarred for life; nor ever wrecked my prize go-kart in a Hulk-like rage of wanton destruction because I wouldn't let her have a go on it*, drives The Special Bus in Warrington, and spends her days shopping in Marks and Spencers, doing jigsaws and drinking gallons of tea with what the council euphemistically refers to as "customers".
For this she gets money for her motorbike habit.
I wish I could do that. One look at the Dorset County Council Special Bus has me convinced I should give up this writing mullarkey and concentrate on the important things in life.
It's bright green, has six wheels and has a big picture of a lion on the side.
I must drive that bus. I must. I would even convert it so that it could fly, or even to go under water. Then it really would be the most special of special buses. Perhaps a couple of cruise missiles launchers, budget permitting.
With my CV at the ready, with all the swearing tippexed out, I could show the council my almost entire blemish-free driving licence; and will promise on my life not to crash their prize possession into anything, praying that unfortunate business with the Mayor and the Town Bridge is forgotten by now. It would be this: aces.
But fear not those of you who cannot drive! Most special buses come with a crew of two - The Special Bus Driver, whose job it is to do the difficult driving stuff, shooting down Germans and making sure that the hovercraft attachment is on "blow" instead of "suck"; and the all-important Wrangler, who is in charge of loading, unloading and singing "The Wheels on the Bus", "We're all going on a Lion Hunt", "Eskimo Nell" and other approved songs. All this while making sure the correct customers are delivered to the right places. It was hell the day they mixed up the ADHD kids and the old grannies' rest home.
It is, then, a job with great responsibility. The ninja of the roads.
So, it came as a huge surprise to see the aftermath of a car crash at the top of our street.
Vegetable soup!
Scary Street runs up a steep hill to a T junction onto a busy road. What you really don't need with this kind of road layout is a convencience store, a Bolockbuster** Video and a chip shop. It's the kind of place where double yellow lines mean nothing to drivers too lazy to use the car park, and the place is often strewn with badly-parked fat peoples' cars. Result: frequent chaos.
So, Friday night, on the way back from dumping the spawn at a school disco. I was proceeding in a westerly direction towards the top of Scary Street, when I espied what appeared to be a collision between two vehicles.
"Ello, ello, ello," says I, "What's going on 'ere then?"
Some idiot had tried to beat the Special Bus at the road junction by roaring away from the lazy bastards' parking place outside Bolockbusters, and instead caught the six wheeled armour-plated monster in the most terrifying sideswipe. His chips were everywhere.
Arriving just seconds later, there were bits of car, glass, blood, brave people everywhere. In fact, the bus passengers seemed to have emerged relatively unscathed, and were wandering around the area, while the bus driver and chief wrangler attended to the dazed car driver who had wrecked their bus.
"You bastard! You wrecked my bus!" they said soothingly, "I bet the laser targetting's knackered now!"
By the time the rozzers turned up the entire area was crawling with confused special people*** staggering about saying "HELLO!" to bystanders and waving. Several had to be dragged out of Bolockbusters; whilst one had spotted an open front door, and was found watching TV in somebody's lounge. It took them ages to round them all up, and I'm certain they may have corralled a few innocent bystanders as well. There was free chips, even.
As I said to Mrs Duck when I arrived home with my exciting tale of woe, "I wonder if they've got any jobs going?" She still thinks I've got a career in that new Domino's Pizza place, but I don't care. They don't have a bus.
* As you can see, I've still got several decades of unresolved issues to contend with, which, by way of therapy, may well surface on these pages unless large sums of money changes hands pretty damn pronto.
** I meant to type Blockbuster, and I'm not going to change it now.
*** Struggling for a word here. "People with Learning Challenges" is just too long, while "tard", "spacker" or "mong", whilst raising a quick laugh, are just juvenile and wrong, wrong, wrong. Stop laughing at the back. See? You're laughing, and that's wrong. You sick bastard.
My sister - who sometimes reads these pages, and is therefore a most wonderful, caring person who never once attempted to drown me in the school swimming pool; or never, ever tried to teach the dog to go for my throat - now has her dream job.
With two degrees in Greek History and Sociology (or something equally worthy gained from an adulthood almost totally devoid of torturing younger brothers), and after a lifetime in unrewarding careers such as roadie to the stars, university Ents Committee big cheese and record shop manager, she now works in the kind of career that you and I can only fantasise about. In fact, she's had it for some time, I've just never got round to mention it.
And what a job!
My sister, who never, ever once went for me with evil, lunging talons, leaving me scarred for life; nor ever wrecked my prize go-kart in a Hulk-like rage of wanton destruction because I wouldn't let her have a go on it*, drives The Special Bus in Warrington, and spends her days shopping in Marks and Spencers, doing jigsaws and drinking gallons of tea with what the council euphemistically refers to as "customers".
For this she gets money for her motorbike habit.
I wish I could do that. One look at the Dorset County Council Special Bus has me convinced I should give up this writing mullarkey and concentrate on the important things in life.
It's bright green, has six wheels and has a big picture of a lion on the side.
I must drive that bus. I must. I would even convert it so that it could fly, or even to go under water. Then it really would be the most special of special buses. Perhaps a couple of cruise missiles launchers, budget permitting.
With my CV at the ready, with all the swearing tippexed out, I could show the council my almost entire blemish-free driving licence; and will promise on my life not to crash their prize possession into anything, praying that unfortunate business with the Mayor and the Town Bridge is forgotten by now. It would be this: aces.
But fear not those of you who cannot drive! Most special buses come with a crew of two - The Special Bus Driver, whose job it is to do the difficult driving stuff, shooting down Germans and making sure that the hovercraft attachment is on "blow" instead of "suck"; and the all-important Wrangler, who is in charge of loading, unloading and singing "The Wheels on the Bus", "We're all going on a Lion Hunt", "Eskimo Nell" and other approved songs. All this while making sure the correct customers are delivered to the right places. It was hell the day they mixed up the ADHD kids and the old grannies' rest home.
It is, then, a job with great responsibility. The ninja of the roads.
So, it came as a huge surprise to see the aftermath of a car crash at the top of our street.
Vegetable soup!
Scary Street runs up a steep hill to a T junction onto a busy road. What you really don't need with this kind of road layout is a convencience store, a Bolockbuster** Video and a chip shop. It's the kind of place where double yellow lines mean nothing to drivers too lazy to use the car park, and the place is often strewn with badly-parked fat peoples' cars. Result: frequent chaos.
So, Friday night, on the way back from dumping the spawn at a school disco. I was proceeding in a westerly direction towards the top of Scary Street, when I espied what appeared to be a collision between two vehicles.
"Ello, ello, ello," says I, "What's going on 'ere then?"
Some idiot had tried to beat the Special Bus at the road junction by roaring away from the lazy bastards' parking place outside Bolockbusters, and instead caught the six wheeled armour-plated monster in the most terrifying sideswipe. His chips were everywhere.
Arriving just seconds later, there were bits of car, glass, blood, brave people everywhere. In fact, the bus passengers seemed to have emerged relatively unscathed, and were wandering around the area, while the bus driver and chief wrangler attended to the dazed car driver who had wrecked their bus.
"You bastard! You wrecked my bus!" they said soothingly, "I bet the laser targetting's knackered now!"
By the time the rozzers turned up the entire area was crawling with confused special people*** staggering about saying "HELLO!" to bystanders and waving. Several had to be dragged out of Bolockbusters; whilst one had spotted an open front door, and was found watching TV in somebody's lounge. It took them ages to round them all up, and I'm certain they may have corralled a few innocent bystanders as well. There was free chips, even.
As I said to Mrs Duck when I arrived home with my exciting tale of woe, "I wonder if they've got any jobs going?" She still thinks I've got a career in that new Domino's Pizza place, but I don't care. They don't have a bus.
* As you can see, I've still got several decades of unresolved issues to contend with, which, by way of therapy, may well surface on these pages unless large sums of money changes hands pretty damn pronto.
** I meant to type Blockbuster, and I'm not going to change it now.
*** Struggling for a word here. "People with Learning Challenges" is just too long, while "tard", "spacker" or "mong", whilst raising a quick laugh, are just juvenile and wrong, wrong, wrong. Stop laughing at the back. See? You're laughing, and that's wrong. You sick bastard.
Thursday, February 03, 2005
Lottery News
Lottery News
The National Lottery has been hit by scandal after news emerged that the organisation's Good Causes fund had spent £2m saving the original of the celebrated artwork "Tennis Girl Scratching Her Arse" for the nation.
The world famous picture will now hang in the National Gallery alongside works by Rembrandt, Botticelli and The Fallen Madonna with ze Big Boobies by van Klump.
A statement from Idiot Tax headquarters says that the Good Causes fund was forced to act "in the national interest" after the original versions of "Dogs Playing Cards" and "Cute Baby With Headphones" recently fell into the hands of foreign collectors.
The next big test for the Lottery is next week's auction at Christies, where original works featuring the popular orange-skinned models Jordan and Linzi Dawn Mackenzie and a mint collection of Fiesta Readers' Wives go under the auctioneer's hammer, with international jazz collectors expected to bid millions for this top quality British smut.
Thursday vote-woe
I expect you're wondering where the Thursday vote-o has gone. In fact, so am I - having forgotten that today is Thursday with the added woe of leaving my Big File of Scary Stories at work.
So, I'll be pulling together some scribbled notes this afternoon and presenting you with an all-new tale of mirth and woe in the morning. Vote-me-up!*
a) Special Bus: First class ticket to Hell, please! Don't expect political correctness in any way shape or form.
Bollocks to this, I'm off to buy a car.
* If you can be arsed.
The National Lottery has been hit by scandal after news emerged that the organisation's Good Causes fund had spent £2m saving the original of the celebrated artwork "Tennis Girl Scratching Her Arse" for the nation.
The world famous picture will now hang in the National Gallery alongside works by Rembrandt, Botticelli and The Fallen Madonna with ze Big Boobies by van Klump.
A statement from Idiot Tax headquarters says that the Good Causes fund was forced to act "in the national interest" after the original versions of "Dogs Playing Cards" and "Cute Baby With Headphones" recently fell into the hands of foreign collectors.
The next big test for the Lottery is next week's auction at Christies, where original works featuring the popular orange-skinned models Jordan and Linzi Dawn Mackenzie and a mint collection of Fiesta Readers' Wives go under the auctioneer's hammer, with international jazz collectors expected to bid millions for this top quality British smut.
Thursday vote-woe
I expect you're wondering where the Thursday vote-o has gone. In fact, so am I - having forgotten that today is Thursday with the added woe of leaving my Big File of Scary Stories at work.
So, I'll be pulling together some scribbled notes this afternoon and presenting you with an all-new tale of mirth and woe in the morning. Vote-me-up!*
a) Special Bus: First class ticket to Hell, please! Don't expect political correctness in any way shape or form.
Bollocks to this, I'm off to buy a car.
* If you can be arsed.
Wednesday, February 02, 2005
Useless Workshy Cunt of a Builder Update
Useless Workshy Cunt of a Builder Update
This coming week, papers will be lodged with Weymouth and Portland County Court with the aim of recovering some GBP 6866.62 from our Useless Workshy Cunt of a Builder.
Realising that he had a) grossly under-quoted for the job, and b) forgot to factor in the sixteen cigarette breaks per day he required, UWCoaB walked out of a contract last October, leaving our house resembling that of TV's Mr Trebus. The useless, workshy cunt.
Ah, GBP 6866.62. So good, I'm going to spell it out, with capitals. Six Thousand Eight Hundred and Sixty-Six Pounds and Sixty-Two of the Queen's pennies*. I would say "of his hard-earned cash", but the UWCoaB put in a whole two days' hard work all the time he was with us, and that's hardly worth three-and-a-half grand a day, is it?
6822.62, or to our American readers, USD 12, 951.81. I like it even better in Russian Rubles: R 364,533, and South Korean Won just makes me cum: W 13, 262,598.
However, plain old cash or non-bouncing cheque from the Bank of Useless Workshy Cuntery will do just fine.**
* Ah. I forgot to add on the quote from the plasterer. The final figure is nearer eight grand, but I can't be arsed to rewrite this whole piece.
** I've been on a libel course. I can prove that he is a) useless b) workshy, and c) a cunt. All is fine.
This coming week, papers will be lodged with Weymouth and Portland County Court with the aim of recovering some GBP 6866.62 from our Useless Workshy Cunt of a Builder.
Realising that he had a) grossly under-quoted for the job, and b) forgot to factor in the sixteen cigarette breaks per day he required, UWCoaB walked out of a contract last October, leaving our house resembling that of TV's Mr Trebus. The useless, workshy cunt.
Ah, GBP 6866.62. So good, I'm going to spell it out, with capitals. Six Thousand Eight Hundred and Sixty-Six Pounds and Sixty-Two of the Queen's pennies*. I would say "of his hard-earned cash", but the UWCoaB put in a whole two days' hard work all the time he was with us, and that's hardly worth three-and-a-half grand a day, is it?
6822.62, or to our American readers, USD 12, 951.81. I like it even better in Russian Rubles: R 364,533, and South Korean Won just makes me cum: W 13, 262,598.
However, plain old cash or non-bouncing cheque from the Bank of Useless Workshy Cuntery will do just fine.**
* Ah. I forgot to add on the quote from the plasterer. The final figure is nearer eight grand, but I can't be arsed to rewrite this whole piece.
** I've been on a libel course. I can prove that he is a) useless b) workshy, and c) a cunt. All is fine.
Tuesday, February 01, 2005
Gong
Ivan Noble 1965-2005
Ivan Noble died yesterday. He will be sadly missed by his family, friends and former colleagues, not to mention the thousands he reached through his tumour diaries on BBC Online.
I feel humbled to have worked with him as a BBC colleague for several years. Rest in Peace.
Gong
There have been many complaints over recent centuries that the British honours system has been devalued beyond repair by the rewarding of gongs to undeserving, untalented no-marks, usually for services rendered to a compliant government. I point the finger, in particular, at Lord Jeffrey Archer, Sir Cliff Richard, and of course Wee Jimmy Krankie MBE.
Even the recent elevation of so-called "people's peers" have gone, in the main, to establishment figures, with nary a milkman, pole-dancer or lightly-oiled TV celebrity* amongst them.
To redress the balance, it is our intention to petition the government and force them (by crapping through the letterbox at Number Ten if necessary) to dish out honours to people who really deserve them. We, as a nation, need more Sir Les Batterbys, Dame Dot Cottons and Lord Scary Ducks.
Suggest-me-do!
*Sarah Beeny MBE, OBE [for services to the baby oil and badger-greasing industries] - what a lovely pair of gongs. I'll get me coat.
Ivan Noble died yesterday. He will be sadly missed by his family, friends and former colleagues, not to mention the thousands he reached through his tumour diaries on BBC Online.
I feel humbled to have worked with him as a BBC colleague for several years. Rest in Peace.
Gong
There have been many complaints over recent centuries that the British honours system has been devalued beyond repair by the rewarding of gongs to undeserving, untalented no-marks, usually for services rendered to a compliant government. I point the finger, in particular, at Lord Jeffrey Archer, Sir Cliff Richard, and of course Wee Jimmy Krankie MBE.
Even the recent elevation of so-called "people's peers" have gone, in the main, to establishment figures, with nary a milkman, pole-dancer or lightly-oiled TV celebrity* amongst them.
To redress the balance, it is our intention to petition the government and force them (by crapping through the letterbox at Number Ten if necessary) to dish out honours to people who really deserve them. We, as a nation, need more Sir Les Batterbys, Dame Dot Cottons and Lord Scary Ducks.
Suggest-me-do!
*Sarah Beeny MBE, OBE [for services to the baby oil and badger-greasing industries] - what a lovely pair of gongs. I'll get me coat.