The Bunny Suicides
When I stopped travelling by train and elected to drive my car to work (a mere 214 mile round trip, selfishly burning up the ozone layer every inch of the way), I knew there would be a price to pay. And it is this: the wildlife of the entire south of England – rabbits, badgers, pigeons, crows and deer – all queuing up to fling themselves under the wheels of my car.
Contrary to what you think about me, I hate killing things, and there’s nothing worse than that ker-thump as another cute fluffy animal wraps its innards around your axle. My nerves are utterly frayed by suicidal rabbits throwing themselves under my wheels. I’ve actually had two that have passed straight under my car completely unscathed, and are still sat there as the following vehicle bears down on them. They’re probably stunt rabbits, and it’s something for them to do because they don’t have television.
It’s dreadful, especially when you’re on a busy road – you can’t slow down, you can’t swerve, you just head relentlessly onwards towards Mr Big Ears, blind-folded and enjoying a last cigarette simply because he doesn’t have the means to stick his head in the gas oven.
I mean, for God’s sake, countryside abounds. Mile after square mile of it, with trees, hedges, lovely grassy bits and as much poo as they can eat. And what do they do? Sit in the middle of the road and wait for the Grim Squeaker* to carry them away.
Come to think of it, I’d be terminally depressed if my life consisted of a) living down a hole b) relentless, never-ending sex and c) a diet of grass and your own poo.
* (c) Pterry Pratchett.
Tuesday, May 31, 2005
Monday, May 30, 2005
On Beeb-bashing
On Beeb-bashing
When the otherwise sane Conservative MP Boris Johnson starts hammering on about bias at the BBC because one or two journalists accidentally let the veil slip on their neutrality, and he recently receives a licence demand for a TV he doesn't possess, you've got to wonder if he's been overdoing it on the Sunny Delight again.
I was recently challenged, in another place, to justify the BBC Licence fee, and why, should “anyone have to pay for it when there’s nothing on the telly, and I can get ITV for nothing?”
To which I replied:
BBC1
BBC2
BBC3
BBC4
News 24
BBC Parliament
CBBC
CBeebies
Radio 1
Radio 2
Radio 3
Radio 4
Radio 5Live
6Music
Radio 7
1Xtra
Asian Network
Regional TV studios providing news and culturally distinct programming
Regional radio stations including national channels for Wales, NI and Scotland, with further stations in Welsh and Gaelic
bbc.co.uk, the world’s most comprehensive news, entertainment and educational website
Programming as diverse as...
Doctor Who
Little Britain
Question Time
The League of Gentlemen
EastEnders
Strictly Come Dancing
Jerry Springer: The Opera
Songs of Praise
Life isn’t all ha ha hee hee
Hitchhiker’s guide to the Galaxy
Life on Earth
Blue Peter
Panorama
And I’m sure Gert will remind me: The BBC Proms concert season
All this for less than ten quid a month. No adverts, no crazy frog, no Celebrity Love Island, and you pay for ITV and Sky whenever you buy a TV-advertised product at the shops.
Also, your taxes, through the Foreign Office, pay another ten quid a year for the World Service, the world’s most listened to and most trusted radio station.
Seriously, if you really, really want your TV and radio for nothing, go here, grab yourself some tickets or apply to actually take part in a programme, and get your entertainment right in the heart of the beast. Literally the best free show in town.
I think Boris is very much the last, true Jedi Knight of the Tory party, but, Boris, in this “advanced free market economy” of yours, I’d much rather have my news from somebody neutral, rather than somebody with shareholders. And that is by how far you have managed to miss the point. And being sans television and sans licence, you're still getting all that radio and web juice for nothing. And you're complaining?
Irony: I have sold my soul, and this site now comes with adverts. Click-me-up and make me rich*!
* Marginally less poor
When the otherwise sane Conservative MP Boris Johnson starts hammering on about bias at the BBC because one or two journalists accidentally let the veil slip on their neutrality, and he recently receives a licence demand for a TV he doesn't possess, you've got to wonder if he's been overdoing it on the Sunny Delight again.
I was recently challenged, in another place, to justify the BBC Licence fee, and why, should “anyone have to pay for it when there’s nothing on the telly, and I can get ITV for nothing?”
To which I replied:
BBC1
BBC2
BBC3
BBC4
News 24
BBC Parliament
CBBC
CBeebies
Radio 1
Radio 2
Radio 3
Radio 4
Radio 5Live
6Music
Radio 7
1Xtra
Asian Network
Regional TV studios providing news and culturally distinct programming
Regional radio stations including national channels for Wales, NI and Scotland, with further stations in Welsh and Gaelic
bbc.co.uk, the world’s most comprehensive news, entertainment and educational website
Programming as diverse as...
Doctor Who
Little Britain
Question Time
The League of Gentlemen
EastEnders
Strictly Come Dancing
Jerry Springer: The Opera
Songs of Praise
Life isn’t all ha ha hee hee
Hitchhiker’s guide to the Galaxy
Life on Earth
Blue Peter
Panorama
And I’m sure Gert will remind me: The BBC Proms concert season
All this for less than ten quid a month. No adverts, no crazy frog, no Celebrity Love Island, and you pay for ITV and Sky whenever you buy a TV-advertised product at the shops.
Also, your taxes, through the Foreign Office, pay another ten quid a year for the World Service, the world’s most listened to and most trusted radio station.
Seriously, if you really, really want your TV and radio for nothing, go here, grab yourself some tickets or apply to actually take part in a programme, and get your entertainment right in the heart of the beast. Literally the best free show in town.
I think Boris is very much the last, true Jedi Knight of the Tory party, but, Boris, in this “advanced free market economy” of yours, I’d much rather have my news from somebody neutral, rather than somebody with shareholders. And that is by how far you have managed to miss the point. And being sans television and sans licence, you're still getting all that radio and web juice for nothing. And you're complaining?
Irony: I have sold my soul, and this site now comes with adverts. Click-me-up and make me rich*!
* Marginally less poor
Friday, May 27, 2005
Streaker: Nudity woe
Streaker: Nudity woe
Our junior school had its own swimming pool, which they were rather proud of. Twenty-five metres by ten, outdoors and freezing cold, it was still head-and-shoulders above anything other schools could boast. One got the feeling that the budget might have run out shortly before the end of the project, as the changing rooms were nothing but a couple of sheds with wooden benches pushed up against the walls.
The school budget did, however, stretch to getting some old bloke in to teach us how to swim, using the technique of shouting at us so much kids were too scared to get out of the water, except for all those times he got struck by lightning.
Any given swimming lesson would end in the same fashion – running the gauntlet, while your fellow students whipped your bare arse with wet towels whether you liked it or not. And that was just in the girls’.
After one particular swimming lesson when I was about eight years old, there was the usual skylarking, the flicking of bare arses with towels, peeking under the gap into the girls', building up to the usual riot and the neighbours complaining.
However, adult intervention was rather slow in arriving, and things started to get a little out of hand. Someone got towel-flicked on the willy, which brought a roar of laughter as the victim collapsed into a quivering foetal position, and an unsuspecting kid was wedgied to within an inch of his life. So, it was entirely justifiable, in the circumstances, that yours truly should end up standing stark naked on one of the changing room benches, swinging my trunks over my head singing "We are the streakers!"
Others joined in my chorus, and soon enough, those who were in a position to join in were also jumping around sans vetements waving items of clothing in the air chanting “We are the streakers! We are the streakers!”
Enter our teacher, the still smouldering swimming instructor, the headmaster, the entire board of school governors, the local vicar and his good friend the catholic priest from the church of St Thomas More, a couple of nuns, representatives of the local press and a photographer, all keen to find out about our lovely swimming pool and the lovely, charming children that use it.
My back to the action, I was the only one who had not registered their presence.
“We are the str......”
Doom.
Not one person backed me up. Not even the priest.
Our junior school had its own swimming pool, which they were rather proud of. Twenty-five metres by ten, outdoors and freezing cold, it was still head-and-shoulders above anything other schools could boast. One got the feeling that the budget might have run out shortly before the end of the project, as the changing rooms were nothing but a couple of sheds with wooden benches pushed up against the walls.
The school budget did, however, stretch to getting some old bloke in to teach us how to swim, using the technique of shouting at us so much kids were too scared to get out of the water, except for all those times he got struck by lightning.
Any given swimming lesson would end in the same fashion – running the gauntlet, while your fellow students whipped your bare arse with wet towels whether you liked it or not. And that was just in the girls’.
After one particular swimming lesson when I was about eight years old, there was the usual skylarking, the flicking of bare arses with towels, peeking under the gap into the girls', building up to the usual riot and the neighbours complaining.
However, adult intervention was rather slow in arriving, and things started to get a little out of hand. Someone got towel-flicked on the willy, which brought a roar of laughter as the victim collapsed into a quivering foetal position, and an unsuspecting kid was wedgied to within an inch of his life. So, it was entirely justifiable, in the circumstances, that yours truly should end up standing stark naked on one of the changing room benches, swinging my trunks over my head singing "We are the streakers!"
Others joined in my chorus, and soon enough, those who were in a position to join in were also jumping around sans vetements waving items of clothing in the air chanting “We are the streakers! We are the streakers!”
Enter our teacher, the still smouldering swimming instructor, the headmaster, the entire board of school governors, the local vicar and his good friend the catholic priest from the church of St Thomas More, a couple of nuns, representatives of the local press and a photographer, all keen to find out about our lovely swimming pool and the lovely, charming children that use it.
My back to the action, I was the only one who had not registered their presence.
“We are the str......”
Doom.
Not one person backed me up. Not even the priest.
Thursday, May 26, 2005
Messin' with your head
Messin' with your head
Or, tunes guaranteed to mess up your entire day, and drive everybody around you insane:
* "A Message to you, Rudi" by The Specials - currently living in the wild at my place of work. Grown men suddenly breaking into impromptu "Ba ba ba ba ba baaaaa" for no reason whatsoever. And I started it. Currently appearing on TV them tunes and adverts everywhere.
* "Oh Mickey you're so fine, you're so fine you blow my mind, Hey Mickey!" - I need say no more. Now designated a cruel and unusual punishment by the US Supreme Court. You're singing it right now.
* “Show me the way to Amarillo” now pops into my head at such regular intervals, I am now considering performing a lobotomy on myself. It’ll be just my luck if I spoon out the wrong bits.
Go on, you know you want to tell the rest of us...
Speaking Brains
The more observant of you have already noticed a new feature I added last night: The Scaryduck Discussion Forum. Not only can you read wanky bollocks in my name, you can waste entire days of your life talking it too. Get in there!
Number one discussion for today: "Scary never does a Thursday vote-o these days, the bastard". Excuse: busy again, but an all-new tale of woe involving nudity, a Catholic priest and a cool talking dog* has been prepared for your delight.
* Almost certainly untrue.
Or, tunes guaranteed to mess up your entire day, and drive everybody around you insane:
* "A Message to you, Rudi" by The Specials - currently living in the wild at my place of work. Grown men suddenly breaking into impromptu "Ba ba ba ba ba baaaaa" for no reason whatsoever. And I started it. Currently appearing on TV them tunes and adverts everywhere.
* "Oh Mickey you're so fine, you're so fine you blow my mind, Hey Mickey!" - I need say no more. Now designated a cruel and unusual punishment by the US Supreme Court. You're singing it right now.
* “Show me the way to Amarillo” now pops into my head at such regular intervals, I am now considering performing a lobotomy on myself. It’ll be just my luck if I spoon out the wrong bits.
Go on, you know you want to tell the rest of us...
Speaking Brains
The more observant of you have already noticed a new feature I added last night: The Scaryduck Discussion Forum. Not only can you read wanky bollocks in my name, you can waste entire days of your life talking it too. Get in there!
Number one discussion for today: "Scary never does a Thursday vote-o these days, the bastard". Excuse: busy again, but an all-new tale of woe involving nudity, a Catholic priest and a cool talking dog* has been prepared for your delight.
* Almost certainly untrue.
Wednesday, May 25, 2005
Spam-u-like
Spam-u-like
A Scaryduck's Brother special
We have a junk mail problem in our office. The IT department try their best; the latest solution allows us to review the title of the mail and choose to receive it if we are unlikely to be corrupted or offended. Here for your entertainment is a list of my favourites. Do with it what you will (for example, you may wish to print it out and hand it to an old lady at a bus stop):
* The Blonde and the Sheep - Bloody hell, Jordan and Peter Andre get everywhere
* Amateur sluts gurlping down cum!
* She likes to sew, knit and get her ass fuccked!
* Free Teen Cunt-Munching
* Sarah likes to suck balls
* Your penis on call instantly - And my boss's incessant demands are wearing me out
* Trannny wants it up the aassshole
* Tear her hymen apart - The classic song by Joy Division, there
* FCUK a P0RN Star: TitFCUK 36 DD Melons!
* Quality CumSwallowing! - As opposed to totally rubbish cumswallowing
* SlutsDrink CumCocktails!
* Freak Fuckfest
* Babes with Big Hammers - Those fucking fat bastard West Ham fans get all the luck
* P0RN Movie Heaven: She Gets FCUKed in a Phone Booth!
* pil.l to impr`ove sper"m flavour and vol"ume - Now in Strawberry, Chocolate and Vanilla
* Girls On The Farm Don't Need To Masturbate - They just drive a tractor across a ploughed field instead
* She squeeled like a pig - And now I'm doing six years for what the press called "That Business with the Donkey"
You've got to be curious about 'Freak Fuckfest' haven't you...
A Scaryduck's Brother special
We have a junk mail problem in our office. The IT department try their best; the latest solution allows us to review the title of the mail and choose to receive it if we are unlikely to be corrupted or offended. Here for your entertainment is a list of my favourites. Do with it what you will (for example, you may wish to print it out and hand it to an old lady at a bus stop):
* The Blonde and the Sheep - Bloody hell, Jordan and Peter Andre get everywhere
* Amateur sluts gurlping down cum!
* She likes to sew, knit and get her ass fuccked!
* Free Teen Cunt-Munching
* Sarah likes to suck balls
* Your penis on call instantly - And my boss's incessant demands are wearing me out
* Trannny wants it up the aassshole
* Tear her hymen apart - The classic song by Joy Division, there
* FCUK a P0RN Star: TitFCUK 36 DD Melons!
* Quality CumSwallowing! - As opposed to totally rubbish cumswallowing
* SlutsDrink CumCocktails!
* Freak Fuckfest
* Babes with Big Hammers - Those fucking fat bastard West Ham fans get all the luck
* P0RN Movie Heaven: She Gets FCUKed in a Phone Booth!
* pil.l to impr`ove sper"m flavour and vol"ume - Now in Strawberry, Chocolate and Vanilla
* Girls On The Farm Don't Need To Masturbate - They just drive a tractor across a ploughed field instead
* She squeeled like a pig - And now I'm doing six years for what the press called "That Business with the Donkey"
You've got to be curious about 'Freak Fuckfest' haven't you...
Tuesday, May 24, 2005
On Science, again
On Science, again
I'm getting the hang of this science business and I am now deluging every scientific journal I can think of with my half-arsed ideas. So much so, the people at the po-faced medical journal The Lancet hate my guts with a passion reserved only for Crazy Frog - you would have thought they could have used something to cheer up and otherwise drab, boring publication filled with hideous skin conditions and adverts for sticky plasters.
In which case, the miserable gits won't be getting the benefit of my latest study into the male/female domestic conflict nexus, otherwise known as Coleman's First Law of Clothes Shopping In The Company of your Wife.
1. Pay attention. She’ll be asking questions later.
2. Keep smiling even when you're three hours in and somehow back in the first shop you visited.
3. Don't try to be a clever bastard.
In particular, don't pre-record a set of stock answers onto your dictaphone in a flash of brilliance brought on by abject boredom - "Yeah, looks great", "Suits you", "Love it, go on, try it on!" - to play back at opportune moments during your shared shopping experience. This is likely to result in a massive cleave to the bollocks in the footwear department at Debenhams.
Wives, it turns out, don't do embarrassment.
Oh lordy! Robber Rabbit updated with my latest Guardian-related brush with fame. It's all "me me me" round here.
And double Lordy! That bloody penguin's out of prison again.
I'm getting the hang of this science business and I am now deluging every scientific journal I can think of with my half-arsed ideas. So much so, the people at the po-faced medical journal The Lancet hate my guts with a passion reserved only for Crazy Frog - you would have thought they could have used something to cheer up and otherwise drab, boring publication filled with hideous skin conditions and adverts for sticky plasters.
In which case, the miserable gits won't be getting the benefit of my latest study into the male/female domestic conflict nexus, otherwise known as Coleman's First Law of Clothes Shopping In The Company of your Wife.
1. Pay attention. She’ll be asking questions later.
2. Keep smiling even when you're three hours in and somehow back in the first shop you visited.
3. Don't try to be a clever bastard.
In particular, don't pre-record a set of stock answers onto your dictaphone in a flash of brilliance brought on by abject boredom - "Yeah, looks great", "Suits you", "Love it, go on, try it on!" - to play back at opportune moments during your shared shopping experience. This is likely to result in a massive cleave to the bollocks in the footwear department at Debenhams.
Wives, it turns out, don't do embarrassment.
Oh lordy! Robber Rabbit updated with my latest Guardian-related brush with fame. It's all "me me me" round here.
And double Lordy! That bloody penguin's out of prison again.
Monday, May 23, 2005
Weird dreams
Weird dreams
Weird Dream 1: The other night I dreamed I was on a coach holiday. It was a grand tour of Roman ruins, and I was jammed onto a coach with a large group of pensioners. The driver and tour guide was Kevin McCloud - author, designer and presenter of Channel 4's Grand Designs, who ruled the bus with a rod of iron and took great pleasure in tripping up old ladies as they tried to get off.
He took us to view some rather spectacular ruins, but refused to let anyone off the bus when we got there. Instead he took a last-minute diversion and insisted on showing explaining to us the architectural merits of a row of Portaloos and a rubbish skip. Then he stuck his finger up my nose.
Your dream explained: Steer clear of male Channel 4 presenters. It's Kirstie and Sarah you'll be wanting.
Weird Dream 2: On Friday night, I dreamt I was in a huge inter-planetary battle against Space Hitler. In fact, my first words when waking up on Saturday were "Got to stop Space Hitler!"
Luckily, we had Space Stalin, Space Vera Lynn and Romana out of Doctor Who* on our side, and the universe was saved. Double luckily, Mrs Duck is now used to such idiocy first thing in the morning.
Your dream explained: Stay off the cheese at bedtimes, fella, or you'll end up like me: mental and rambling. Space Anne Frank was in there too, come to think of it.
Share your weird dreams. Or not. Your call.
* The Lalla Ward Romana, not the Mary Tamm one who ended up in Brookie. Good Lord, what kind of nutter to you take me for?
Weird Dream 1: The other night I dreamed I was on a coach holiday. It was a grand tour of Roman ruins, and I was jammed onto a coach with a large group of pensioners. The driver and tour guide was Kevin McCloud - author, designer and presenter of Channel 4's Grand Designs, who ruled the bus with a rod of iron and took great pleasure in tripping up old ladies as they tried to get off.
He took us to view some rather spectacular ruins, but refused to let anyone off the bus when we got there. Instead he took a last-minute diversion and insisted on showing explaining to us the architectural merits of a row of Portaloos and a rubbish skip. Then he stuck his finger up my nose.
Your dream explained: Steer clear of male Channel 4 presenters. It's Kirstie and Sarah you'll be wanting.
Weird Dream 2: On Friday night, I dreamt I was in a huge inter-planetary battle against Space Hitler. In fact, my first words when waking up on Saturday were "Got to stop Space Hitler!"
Luckily, we had Space Stalin, Space Vera Lynn and Romana out of Doctor Who* on our side, and the universe was saved. Double luckily, Mrs Duck is now used to such idiocy first thing in the morning.
Your dream explained: Stay off the cheese at bedtimes, fella, or you'll end up like me: mental and rambling. Space Anne Frank was in there too, come to think of it.
Share your weird dreams. Or not. Your call.
* The Lalla Ward Romana, not the Mary Tamm one who ended up in Brookie. Good Lord, what kind of nutter to you take me for?
Friday, May 20, 2005
Star Wars: R2-D2 woe
Star Wars
This weekend, I shall be mostly taking the younger Ducks to see Star Wars III, twenty-eight years to the very weekend that my mother took me, as an eleven year old, to see the original film as part of my brother’s birthday treat. Now that’s symmetry. Or something.
It was my brother’s tenth birthday, and we piled into our old Renault 12, picked up his best friend and headed for the Odeon cinema in Marlow, perhaps the poshest cinema in the whole world. The place had a uniformed commissionaire, a dress circle and rude behaviour was ruthlessly stamped out by frightening torch-wielding usherettes. They also played the national anthem after every showing, it was that kind of place. I wouldn’t be surprised if the popcorn came with a knife and fork.
The film: I was completely blown away by it, and still am from the cowboys-and-indians-in-space plot to mind-blowing effects. I'd just started reading 2000AD comic (A big “Borag Thungg” to fellow Earthlets) that year, and was hankering for some "real" sci-fi on the big screen for a change, that didn't look like it was all plastic models with a firework shoved up the back end. And Lucas delivered in spades. Just a shame we’ve had to wait for the best part of three decades for another decent one.
Usually, I’d spend the entire film squirming in my seat, paying frequent visits to the toilet and seeing more of the porcelain than the silver screen. Not so Star Wars. I was glued to my seat from beginning to the end, jaw slack with admiration at what I’d seen.
And God, I had the hots for Princess Leia too. I decided there and then that I’d be the one to disturb her Force. With my light sabre, like. In particular, I’d...
* ‘fly my desert barge’ into her ‘sarlacc pit’
* 'save' her 'home planet of Alderaan'
* 'locate' her 'holding cell on the detention level'
* ‘jab’ her ‘hut’
* ‘wedge’ her ‘antilles’
* ‘Porkins’ her ‘Red-6’
* ‘ride’ her ‘Y-wing’
* 'fly my X-wing' down her 'trench'
* ‘torpedo’ her ‘exhaust port’
* ‘bullseye’ her ‘womprat’
* ‘turn’ her ‘to the dark side’
* ‘probe’ her ‘outer rim’
* ‘orbit’ her ‘forest moon’, and ‘disable’ her ‘shield generator’
* ‘evacuate’ during ‘our moment of triumph’
* ‘r2’ her ‘d2’ and ‘c’ her ‘3po’
* ‘blow my thing’ and ‘go home’
* And ...err... ‘kiss’ her ‘despite being her brother’.
I think you know what I’m talking about here.
The credits rolled on a packed house, and there was the usual rush for the doors. Not us. As I made to stand up, a firm hand clamped down on my shoulder.
“You’re going to wait THERE and pay the National Anthem some proper respect.”
“But mum...”
“But nothing. I’m teaching you some manners.”
“But... but... I need a poo.”
But nothing. I was forced to sit there, turtle’s head straining against my pants as the names of the best boy, gaffer and second unit catering assistance rolled oh-so-slowly up the screen. Hell.
Finally, the house lights came up. Apart from the stern-faced usherettes willing us out of their establishment, we were the only people left in the auditorium. And the national anthem played, and we stood, reverentially, buttocks firmly clenched, to attention.
Then, silence. The complete, muffled silence of the kind you only ever get in an empty auditoium of half-dimmed lights and velvet curtains. Until...
Open the blast doors, open the blast doors!
FAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARP.
Trump.
FaaaaaaaaaaRAAAAAAAAAAAAAArraaarrrp.
The Force is strong in this one.
I legged it through the nearest door – the ladies - and let forth with an explosion of piss and shit which made the destruction of the death star seem puny by comparison. And all the while the words of Sir Alec Guinness rang in my head “Use the force, Luke! Use the force...”
As you’d expect: doom. I was “never going to be taken anywhere, ever again”. As if I hadn’t heard THAT before.
With grateful thanks to the BoB regulars for their help with the list of shame.
Also: Happy birthday to Nigel who is this: not as old as me, and without whom this site wouldn't be half as funny. That's meant in a good way, bruv.
This weekend, I shall be mostly taking the younger Ducks to see Star Wars III, twenty-eight years to the very weekend that my mother took me, as an eleven year old, to see the original film as part of my brother’s birthday treat. Now that’s symmetry. Or something.
It was my brother’s tenth birthday, and we piled into our old Renault 12, picked up his best friend and headed for the Odeon cinema in Marlow, perhaps the poshest cinema in the whole world. The place had a uniformed commissionaire, a dress circle and rude behaviour was ruthlessly stamped out by frightening torch-wielding usherettes. They also played the national anthem after every showing, it was that kind of place. I wouldn’t be surprised if the popcorn came with a knife and fork.
The film: I was completely blown away by it, and still am from the cowboys-and-indians-in-space plot to mind-blowing effects. I'd just started reading 2000AD comic (A big “Borag Thungg” to fellow Earthlets) that year, and was hankering for some "real" sci-fi on the big screen for a change, that didn't look like it was all plastic models with a firework shoved up the back end. And Lucas delivered in spades. Just a shame we’ve had to wait for the best part of three decades for another decent one.
Usually, I’d spend the entire film squirming in my seat, paying frequent visits to the toilet and seeing more of the porcelain than the silver screen. Not so Star Wars. I was glued to my seat from beginning to the end, jaw slack with admiration at what I’d seen.
And God, I had the hots for Princess Leia too. I decided there and then that I’d be the one to disturb her Force. With my light sabre, like. In particular, I’d...
* ‘fly my desert barge’ into her ‘sarlacc pit’
* 'save' her 'home planet of Alderaan'
* 'locate' her 'holding cell on the detention level'
* ‘jab’ her ‘hut’
* ‘wedge’ her ‘antilles’
* ‘Porkins’ her ‘Red-6’
* ‘ride’ her ‘Y-wing’
* 'fly my X-wing' down her 'trench'
* ‘torpedo’ her ‘exhaust port’
* ‘bullseye’ her ‘womprat’
* ‘turn’ her ‘to the dark side’
* ‘probe’ her ‘outer rim’
* ‘orbit’ her ‘forest moon’, and ‘disable’ her ‘shield generator’
* ‘evacuate’ during ‘our moment of triumph’
* ‘r2’ her ‘d2’ and ‘c’ her ‘3po’
* ‘blow my thing’ and ‘go home’
* And ...err... ‘kiss’ her ‘despite being her brother’.
I think you know what I’m talking about here.
The credits rolled on a packed house, and there was the usual rush for the doors. Not us. As I made to stand up, a firm hand clamped down on my shoulder.
“You’re going to wait THERE and pay the National Anthem some proper respect.”
“But mum...”
“But nothing. I’m teaching you some manners.”
“But... but... I need a poo.”
But nothing. I was forced to sit there, turtle’s head straining against my pants as the names of the best boy, gaffer and second unit catering assistance rolled oh-so-slowly up the screen. Hell.
Finally, the house lights came up. Apart from the stern-faced usherettes willing us out of their establishment, we were the only people left in the auditorium. And the national anthem played, and we stood, reverentially, buttocks firmly clenched, to attention.
Then, silence. The complete, muffled silence of the kind you only ever get in an empty auditoium of half-dimmed lights and velvet curtains. Until...
Open the blast doors, open the blast doors!
FAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARP.
Trump.
FaaaaaaaaaaRAAAAAAAAAAAAAArraaarrrp.
The Force is strong in this one.
I legged it through the nearest door – the ladies - and let forth with an explosion of piss and shit which made the destruction of the death star seem puny by comparison. And all the while the words of Sir Alec Guinness rang in my head “Use the force, Luke! Use the force...”
As you’d expect: doom. I was “never going to be taken anywhere, ever again”. As if I hadn’t heard THAT before.
With grateful thanks to the BoB regulars for their help with the list of shame.
Also: Happy birthday to Nigel who is this: not as old as me, and without whom this site wouldn't be half as funny. That's meant in a good way, bruv.
Thursday, May 19, 2005
On pianos
On pianos
This mystery piano bloke, wondering around the Home Counties impressing the philistines with the bloody awful Warsaw Concerto - it's all a ruse, if you ask me.
If you ask me, it's exactly like that episode of Colditz, the one where the fella pretended to go mad so the Nazis would send him home.
"Tell you what," says Coldplay’s potato-faced ivory-tinkling frontman Chris Martin, "I'll pretend to be mental, get loads of free publicity, shift shedloads of our new album and become a famous concert pianist, finally being taken seriously as a musician into the bargain. Yay me!"
Except be REALLY DOES GO MENTAL and ends up a gibbering wreck somewhere in Kent.
Kids: Don't pretend to be mad, or you'll have Jimmy Saville applying electrodes to your genitals before you know it.
Take a look at this picture and tell me I’m not making this crap up.
PS I am not mad. Nor can I play the piano.
Bad Pun News
Tragic news for toddler, students and layabouts everywhere with the news that the BBC has cancelled Balamory. However, all is not lost – the series about everybody’s favourite Scotch island, featuring asexual police officers and a pre-school teacher with teeth like gravestones has been snapped up by Middle-Eastern broadcaster Al Jazeera.
Remade for Arab audiences, the new programme will be called Allahmory*.
I’ll get me coat.
* This gag has been tested for blasphemy on Arab colleagues, who tell me we're outside the fatwa season.
Vote? No! Again
A long weekend means no Thursday vote-o, but you’ll be pleased to hear that tomorrow’s topical Scary Story will involve both a) Star Wars and b) poo. And on The Dark Side, they don’t wash their hands.
This mystery piano bloke, wondering around the Home Counties impressing the philistines with the bloody awful Warsaw Concerto - it's all a ruse, if you ask me.
If you ask me, it's exactly like that episode of Colditz, the one where the fella pretended to go mad so the Nazis would send him home.
"Tell you what," says Coldplay’s potato-faced ivory-tinkling frontman Chris Martin, "I'll pretend to be mental, get loads of free publicity, shift shedloads of our new album and become a famous concert pianist, finally being taken seriously as a musician into the bargain. Yay me!"
Except be REALLY DOES GO MENTAL and ends up a gibbering wreck somewhere in Kent.
Kids: Don't pretend to be mad, or you'll have Jimmy Saville applying electrodes to your genitals before you know it.
Take a look at this picture and tell me I’m not making this crap up.
PS I am not mad. Nor can I play the piano.
Bad Pun News
Tragic news for toddler, students and layabouts everywhere with the news that the BBC has cancelled Balamory. However, all is not lost – the series about everybody’s favourite Scotch island, featuring asexual police officers and a pre-school teacher with teeth like gravestones has been snapped up by Middle-Eastern broadcaster Al Jazeera.
Remade for Arab audiences, the new programme will be called Allahmory*.
I’ll get me coat.
* This gag has been tested for blasphemy on Arab colleagues, who tell me we're outside the fatwa season.
Vote? No! Again
A long weekend means no Thursday vote-o, but you’ll be pleased to hear that tomorrow’s topical Scary Story will involve both a) Star Wars and b) poo. And on The Dark Side, they don’t wash their hands.
Wednesday, May 18, 2005
Into the Void
Into the Void
Yesterday, I met my first ever blogger. I’ve been doing this malarky for over three years, and the only other bloggers I’ve ever met are those I work with, who don’t really count because I get to meet them every day. And where's the horror in that?
So, last night to the White Horse to meet the charming Mr Rikaitch and the equally (if not more) charming Mrs Aitch for an evening of jolly japes, beer and the sad tale of a lost Commonwealth Games bronze medal, to which I really should have replied “Well, I’ll be dipped”, but didn’t. Photographic evidence of this meeting exists, and good God, I wish it didn’t. Redressing the balance, I actually look like this sober. Note the arms-crossed-covering-the-man-boobs pose.
An excellent evening, and rounded off nicely by finding that elusive photo of Zed’s arse that was sitting on my hard drive all along.
Apples an’ Pears, gor blimey etc
You may have noticed the adverts for a film about a deaf DJ called “It’s all gone Pete Tong”. Whatever the film’s merits, it sees Mr Tong finally joining the relatively short list of living people who are cockney rhyming slang:
Lionel Blair – “Good God, have you seen the Lionels he’s wearing?”
Eartha Kitt – “I usually take a good book when I go for an Eartha”
Britney Spears – “If you’re going to the bar, get the Britneys in”
Gary Glitter - "Lovely girl. Lovely. Takes it up the Gary"
Scaryduck – “Hey love, any chance of a Scary?”
We’d also have Greatest Ever Englishman Bobby Moore (score), except the poor fella went and carked it.
Any others for this illustrious and exclusive list? Suggest-me-do!
Yesterday, I met my first ever blogger. I’ve been doing this malarky for over three years, and the only other bloggers I’ve ever met are those I work with, who don’t really count because I get to meet them every day. And where's the horror in that?
So, last night to the White Horse to meet the charming Mr Rikaitch and the equally (if not more) charming Mrs Aitch for an evening of jolly japes, beer and the sad tale of a lost Commonwealth Games bronze medal, to which I really should have replied “Well, I’ll be dipped”, but didn’t. Photographic evidence of this meeting exists, and good God, I wish it didn’t. Redressing the balance, I actually look like this sober. Note the arms-crossed-covering-the-man-boobs pose.
An excellent evening, and rounded off nicely by finding that elusive photo of Zed’s arse that was sitting on my hard drive all along.
Apples an’ Pears, gor blimey etc
You may have noticed the adverts for a film about a deaf DJ called “It’s all gone Pete Tong”. Whatever the film’s merits, it sees Mr Tong finally joining the relatively short list of living people who are cockney rhyming slang:
Lionel Blair – “Good God, have you seen the Lionels he’s wearing?”
Eartha Kitt – “I usually take a good book when I go for an Eartha”
Britney Spears – “If you’re going to the bar, get the Britneys in”
Gary Glitter - "Lovely girl. Lovely. Takes it up the Gary"
Scaryduck – “Hey love, any chance of a Scary?”
We’d also have Greatest Ever Englishman Bobby Moore (score), except the poor fella went and carked it.
Any others for this illustrious and exclusive list? Suggest-me-do!
Tuesday, May 17, 2005
On Science
On Science
After years of research at the sharp end of space/time theories as advanced by Hawking, married to modern domestic science applications, I am finally in a position to publish my paper on what shall become known as Coleman’s Housework Paradox.
The premise to this is simple, yet the implications for mankind are devastating if the four simple laws are proved by an independent commission.
The First Law: If a man does housework, and there is no female observer to witness it, then no housework has taken place.
The Second Law: If a man does housework in the presence of a female observer, it will be immediately dismissed as “shit” and “you’re only doing it badly so you won’t get asked again”. In such circumstances, no housework has taken place.
The Third Law: Despite doing all the dusting, hoovering, cleaning the toilet, getting that dead thing the cat brought in out of the kitchen, any man must nod in agreement when told “I do all the bloody work round here”.
The Fourth Law: The phrase “Well I work all week to pay the sodding mortgage” is not a valid reply in the circumstances, and such a gambit is likely to end with a pair of testicles in a marmite jar.
Hawking has known about this particular phenomenon for years, and has perfected the art of sitting on his arse doing nothing to such an extent that he even gets his own parking space and a TV remote control built into his wheelchair.
After years of research at the sharp end of space/time theories as advanced by Hawking, married to modern domestic science applications, I am finally in a position to publish my paper on what shall become known as Coleman’s Housework Paradox.
The premise to this is simple, yet the implications for mankind are devastating if the four simple laws are proved by an independent commission.
The First Law: If a man does housework, and there is no female observer to witness it, then no housework has taken place.
The Second Law: If a man does housework in the presence of a female observer, it will be immediately dismissed as “shit” and “you’re only doing it badly so you won’t get asked again”. In such circumstances, no housework has taken place.
The Third Law: Despite doing all the dusting, hoovering, cleaning the toilet, getting that dead thing the cat brought in out of the kitchen, any man must nod in agreement when told “I do all the bloody work round here”.
The Fourth Law: The phrase “Well I work all week to pay the sodding mortgage” is not a valid reply in the circumstances, and such a gambit is likely to end with a pair of testicles in a marmite jar.
Hawking has known about this particular phenomenon for years, and has perfected the art of sitting on his arse doing nothing to such an extent that he even gets his own parking space and a TV remote control built into his wheelchair.
Monday, May 16, 2005
Dcuk woe
Dcuk woe
And these people thought they were the only people in the world with top quality DCUK brand gear.
Feh, I say. Feh!
Why spend fifty quid on novelty waterfowl, when you could own top quality DCUK wear for less than a tenner? Go on, you know you want to.
Free beer, money and sex etc etc etc...
Beeny News
Disturbing news from Graybo: Wonky-eyed Sarah Beeny named Britain's most contaminated celebrity. Must be all the baby oil.
And these people thought they were the only people in the world with top quality DCUK brand gear.
Feh, I say. Feh!
Why spend fifty quid on novelty waterfowl, when you could own top quality DCUK wear for less than a tenner? Go on, you know you want to.
Free beer, money and sex etc etc etc...
Beeny News
Disturbing news from Graybo: Wonky-eyed Sarah Beeny named Britain's most contaminated celebrity. Must be all the baby oil.
Friday, May 13, 2005
Poo: Woe
Poo: Woe
For the new reader: Every Friday, a new tale of mrth and woe from the files of Scaryduck. This week, it's about bottoms. As usual.
Gert from Mad Musings, while guest-writing on another blog, recently (um... last year, which goes to show how things work round here) wrote about the misfortune of pissing your own pants; or more specifically, the near-orgasmic delight of warmth immediately following the unfortunate release. Those long winter nights at the Gert household must absolutely fly by.
Oh yes, for I have done it too, and anyone who says they haven't has failed to notice that their pants are on fire. I have, however, never puked in the bath. Now, that would be careless.
I might as well be thorough in my confession, as people who know me in the flesh are undoubtedly reading this, and with my annual appraisal coming up next week, this could be my big chance to get away from it all.
Number Ones: As a formerly committed drinker, this occurred far too often to remember, even if I could. I have even been so manky as to pull on a pair of reeking, still damp jeans, completely forgetting in my hungover state the low quality trouser action from the night before.
But now, it all (pun intended) comes flooding back to me - the moment of blind panic, followed by resignation and a wonderful feeling of warmth, liberation and delight. Thirty seconds later, you realise you are drunk, freezing and miles from home. You walk like a cowboy and no taxi driver will stop for you. Lovely.
Voms: Not I, but I have seen with my own eyes the result of a post-pub illicit swim in the pool at an RAF station in Lincolnshire. There must have been gallons of chunder, as rich brown gobs of unidentifiable matter floated around like foul-smelling rafts.
For some reason, the powers-that-be blamed the visiting Air Cadets, who were on station for a summer camp and strictly banned from visiting drinking establishments; and not any of the hundreds of adult airmen at the station, who were allowed drink, and resorted to it in a big way as the only thing to do for miles around.
They had to drain the whole thing, while some bullshitting Warrant Officer shouted at us until he was purple. It couldn’t have been me. I was getting thrown out of a pub at the time, after Tiny Roger had asked for “a cup of beer, please sir”.
Number Twos: As a kid, my sister locked me out of the bathroom, and gleefully listened as my panic rose and a substance resembling cake dough ran down my leg. The dog tried to eat it, and I was told that It Was All My Fault. These things are sent to fuck with your head.
My last time was, ooooh, about six months ago. Caught short between work and station, I let loose what I thought was going to be a cheeky fart, not realizing that it was solids. There was not even that moment of reckless delight associated with premature pissage - just utter panic, and a clenched buttock John Inman-esque walk, desperately trying not to let a grim situation get any worse.
Fortunately, further contamination was contained, and the soiled grundies were disposed of in the traditional manner - down a nearby pub toilet. Mrs Duck was horrified - not at the botty accident, but at the fact that a perfectly serviceable pair of trollies were flushed away in such a cavalier manner. I should have asked the barman to wash them for me along with the bar towels, obviously.
I wouldn't recommend it, but there are any number of speciality websites where people pay for that kind of red-hot scat action, which you can generally get relatively cheaply with a couple of four packs of Tesco Value brand lager. Then there's the infamous Una Stubbs tale from popbitch. If you haven't heard it, don't ask.
Shitting yourself. It's shit.
For the new reader: Every Friday, a new tale of mrth and woe from the files of Scaryduck. This week, it's about bottoms. As usual.
Gert from Mad Musings, while guest-writing on another blog, recently (um... last year, which goes to show how things work round here) wrote about the misfortune of pissing your own pants; or more specifically, the near-orgasmic delight of warmth immediately following the unfortunate release. Those long winter nights at the Gert household must absolutely fly by.
Oh yes, for I have done it too, and anyone who says they haven't has failed to notice that their pants are on fire. I have, however, never puked in the bath. Now, that would be careless.
I might as well be thorough in my confession, as people who know me in the flesh are undoubtedly reading this, and with my annual appraisal coming up next week, this could be my big chance to get away from it all.
Number Ones: As a formerly committed drinker, this occurred far too often to remember, even if I could. I have even been so manky as to pull on a pair of reeking, still damp jeans, completely forgetting in my hungover state the low quality trouser action from the night before.
But now, it all (pun intended) comes flooding back to me - the moment of blind panic, followed by resignation and a wonderful feeling of warmth, liberation and delight. Thirty seconds later, you realise you are drunk, freezing and miles from home. You walk like a cowboy and no taxi driver will stop for you. Lovely.
Voms: Not I, but I have seen with my own eyes the result of a post-pub illicit swim in the pool at an RAF station in Lincolnshire. There must have been gallons of chunder, as rich brown gobs of unidentifiable matter floated around like foul-smelling rafts.
For some reason, the powers-that-be blamed the visiting Air Cadets, who were on station for a summer camp and strictly banned from visiting drinking establishments; and not any of the hundreds of adult airmen at the station, who were allowed drink, and resorted to it in a big way as the only thing to do for miles around.
They had to drain the whole thing, while some bullshitting Warrant Officer shouted at us until he was purple. It couldn’t have been me. I was getting thrown out of a pub at the time, after Tiny Roger had asked for “a cup of beer, please sir”.
Number Twos: As a kid, my sister locked me out of the bathroom, and gleefully listened as my panic rose and a substance resembling cake dough ran down my leg. The dog tried to eat it, and I was told that It Was All My Fault. These things are sent to fuck with your head.
My last time was, ooooh, about six months ago. Caught short between work and station, I let loose what I thought was going to be a cheeky fart, not realizing that it was solids. There was not even that moment of reckless delight associated with premature pissage - just utter panic, and a clenched buttock John Inman-esque walk, desperately trying not to let a grim situation get any worse.
Fortunately, further contamination was contained, and the soiled grundies were disposed of in the traditional manner - down a nearby pub toilet. Mrs Duck was horrified - not at the botty accident, but at the fact that a perfectly serviceable pair of trollies were flushed away in such a cavalier manner. I should have asked the barman to wash them for me along with the bar towels, obviously.
I wouldn't recommend it, but there are any number of speciality websites where people pay for that kind of red-hot scat action, which you can generally get relatively cheaply with a couple of four packs of Tesco Value brand lager. Then there's the infamous Una Stubbs tale from popbitch. If you haven't heard it, don't ask.
Shitting yourself. It's shit.
Thursday, May 12, 2005
On Teachers
On Teachers
Developments in Duck vs Useless Workshy Cunt of a Builder mean that I won’t be around to administer a vote-o this week. This means that I will be imposing a Scary Story on you tomorrow, but you will be pleased to hear that it involves this: turds. In the meantime, consider, if you will, the following:
Many of these guardians of my education have been referred to on more than one occasion on these pages, but I thought it about time they were all collected in one place for maximum effect. Their teaching ability is beyond doubt. It was just that myself, and my fellow classmates weren’t paying too much attention.
So, whilst I continue to retreat into my adolescence, I present Teachers! Rated out of five for your delight...
** Mrs Smith, maths teacher who had a habit of standing in front of the windows whilst wearing see-through dresses. This had the happy coincidence of distracting us from a face like a sack of spanners.
** and a half. Miss Jones, arts and design. Very plain, made her own clothing. Would not be included here if it were not for an unfortunate wardrobe malfunction.
*** Mrs Tanner, French teacher. Tight white jumpers, and a tendency to grab her right one when excited by particularly impressive verb endings.
*** Miss Scholar, English teacher, bra-less, blouse unbuttoned to her navel. Had the habit of leaning over you when you asked for help with your work. Which was often.
***** Miss Shagwell, science teacher, the biggest norks known to man. Tight, white lab coats, once appeared in Fiesta which was, unfortunately, her downfall. Rumoured to have led six-formers down the darkened path of “extra curricula activity”. The lucky bastards.
Any school day which featured English, French, Science and Maths (which was just about all of them) played merry fucking hell on our hormones. No wonder there was a wanking club in the school dark room. And no, I know what you're thinking...
Now, tell me about your days of school-room torment. Now! NOW! Or I’ll have you back after class.
Developments in Duck vs Useless Workshy Cunt of a Builder mean that I won’t be around to administer a vote-o this week. This means that I will be imposing a Scary Story on you tomorrow, but you will be pleased to hear that it involves this: turds. In the meantime, consider, if you will, the following:
Many of these guardians of my education have been referred to on more than one occasion on these pages, but I thought it about time they were all collected in one place for maximum effect. Their teaching ability is beyond doubt. It was just that myself, and my fellow classmates weren’t paying too much attention.
So, whilst I continue to retreat into my adolescence, I present Teachers! Rated out of five for your delight...
** Mrs Smith, maths teacher who had a habit of standing in front of the windows whilst wearing see-through dresses. This had the happy coincidence of distracting us from a face like a sack of spanners.
** and a half. Miss Jones, arts and design. Very plain, made her own clothing. Would not be included here if it were not for an unfortunate wardrobe malfunction.
*** Mrs Tanner, French teacher. Tight white jumpers, and a tendency to grab her right one when excited by particularly impressive verb endings.
*** Miss Scholar, English teacher, bra-less, blouse unbuttoned to her navel. Had the habit of leaning over you when you asked for help with your work. Which was often.
***** Miss Shagwell, science teacher, the biggest norks known to man. Tight, white lab coats, once appeared in Fiesta which was, unfortunately, her downfall. Rumoured to have led six-formers down the darkened path of “extra curricula activity”. The lucky bastards.
Any school day which featured English, French, Science and Maths (which was just about all of them) played merry fucking hell on our hormones. No wonder there was a wanking club in the school dark room. And no, I know what you're thinking...
Now, tell me about your days of school-room torment. Now! NOW! Or I’ll have you back after class.
Wednesday, May 11, 2005
On Reality Television
On Reality Television
Greetings to my esteemed colleagues, who have found these pages for the first time through the pages of the staff magazine. You are obviously wondering what the hell’s going on, and what this has got to do with The Values. Answer: stuff all. This one’s for you.
It's clear now that ITV's Celebrity Wrestling is the biggest flop since the day Dolly Parton became the victim of The Tennessee Bra Burglar. People, it seems, are coming to their senses and just don't want to see terrible shouty programmes just because they've got That Woman Who Might Have Shagged David Beckham on it. At last, the population has realised that it is simply brainless television shoddily made.
Of course, Celebrity Wrestling, as a concept, could have been brilliant. But it suffers from one massive handicap: they let ITV make it, stripping out any sense of fun, style or wit in the name of shouty shouty thicky trash.
Where are, enquiring minds want to know, the grudge matches that really matter? A Blur vs Oasis royal rumble. Valerie Singleton vs John Noakes. And naturally, Kirstie Allsopp vs Sarah Beeny in a paddling pool full of baby oil, just for personal preference.
Hell's Kitchen. What is that? A bunch of Z-listers cooking for other Z-listers. The only programme ever where you are rooting for the salmonella and an armed gang of health inspectors to bring the proceedings to an early end.
So. Where do we go from here? There was a time when being a celebrity meant something, to have achieved greatness through entertainment, public works, or, if pushed, sports. Now every bugger who has ever gone running to Max Clifford with a sob story or some tale of John Leslie's trouser snake is feted as some sort of superstar, fodder for the red tops and the satanic celebrity magazines they have spawned.
Sigh. If only our television were more like Italy's. The Italians really know how to put on variety, and put out wall-to-wall shows of some class that ITV can only hope for. Then they buy up the formats and fail miserably (Man O Man, anybody?) The Italians have very strict rules about who becomes a celebrity and who does not. I believe the qualifying standard is 36-DD. John McCrirrick wouldn't stand a chance, unless he goes up by at least one cup size.
ITV executives take note. Channel Five has Ron Jeremy, Flavor Flav, a porn star and a large, green duck living on a farm this week. That’s proper rubbish television, that is. You need to commission one (if not all) of the following programmes immediately if you want to break the BBC's Doctor Who stranglehold on the ratings. Trust me, I'm a professional.
* Celebrity Crucifixion - put it up against Songs of Praise and Jade Goody's slow, painful death will take 'em to the cleaners.
* Mel's Kitchen - Get Mel C, Mel Smith Mel Giedroyc and loads of other famous people called Mel, slaughter them painfully, cook them and serve them up to John McCrirrick and Michael Winner in a fine Hollandaise sauce. Come to think of it, Bonnie Langford played Mel in Doctor Who. That's good enough for me.
* Big Brother - None of that crap where "wacky" "tossers" sit around a house all day. I suggest we skip that entirely and go straight for the bit where Winston Smith is forced to wear a helmet containing starving, rabid rats. Celebrity of choice: Jimmy "The reason I can't watch my TV any more" Carr.
* The Running Man - Oh come on, it's the natural conclusion of the whole genre, and only a matter of time before Ian Huntley gets his big break (both of his legs).
* Chav! - A group of has-beens and never-weres are filmed (using security camera footage only) living - and competing with the natives - in the roughest council estate ITV can find, where they must aim to become King of the Chavs whilst fed on a diet consisting entirely of Red Stripe lager and turkey twizzlers. Then, the footage is carefully edited together and burned as a lesson to all concerned.
* Emmerdale - One day you're an A-list celebrity, married to one of the most famous names in music and doing Hollywood blockbusters. The next, you're in Leeds. Life, eh Patsy?
Greetings to my esteemed colleagues, who have found these pages for the first time through the pages of the staff magazine. You are obviously wondering what the hell’s going on, and what this has got to do with The Values. Answer: stuff all. This one’s for you.
It's clear now that ITV's Celebrity Wrestling is the biggest flop since the day Dolly Parton became the victim of The Tennessee Bra Burglar. People, it seems, are coming to their senses and just don't want to see terrible shouty programmes just because they've got That Woman Who Might Have Shagged David Beckham on it. At last, the population has realised that it is simply brainless television shoddily made.
Of course, Celebrity Wrestling, as a concept, could have been brilliant. But it suffers from one massive handicap: they let ITV make it, stripping out any sense of fun, style or wit in the name of shouty shouty thicky trash.
Where are, enquiring minds want to know, the grudge matches that really matter? A Blur vs Oasis royal rumble. Valerie Singleton vs John Noakes. And naturally, Kirstie Allsopp vs Sarah Beeny in a paddling pool full of baby oil, just for personal preference.
Hell's Kitchen. What is that? A bunch of Z-listers cooking for other Z-listers. The only programme ever where you are rooting for the salmonella and an armed gang of health inspectors to bring the proceedings to an early end.
So. Where do we go from here? There was a time when being a celebrity meant something, to have achieved greatness through entertainment, public works, or, if pushed, sports. Now every bugger who has ever gone running to Max Clifford with a sob story or some tale of John Leslie's trouser snake is feted as some sort of superstar, fodder for the red tops and the satanic celebrity magazines they have spawned.
Sigh. If only our television were more like Italy's. The Italians really know how to put on variety, and put out wall-to-wall shows of some class that ITV can only hope for. Then they buy up the formats and fail miserably (Man O Man, anybody?) The Italians have very strict rules about who becomes a celebrity and who does not. I believe the qualifying standard is 36-DD. John McCrirrick wouldn't stand a chance, unless he goes up by at least one cup size.
ITV executives take note. Channel Five has Ron Jeremy, Flavor Flav, a porn star and a large, green duck living on a farm this week. That’s proper rubbish television, that is. You need to commission one (if not all) of the following programmes immediately if you want to break the BBC's Doctor Who stranglehold on the ratings. Trust me, I'm a professional.
* Celebrity Crucifixion - put it up against Songs of Praise and Jade Goody's slow, painful death will take 'em to the cleaners.
* Mel's Kitchen - Get Mel C, Mel Smith Mel Giedroyc and loads of other famous people called Mel, slaughter them painfully, cook them and serve them up to John McCrirrick and Michael Winner in a fine Hollandaise sauce. Come to think of it, Bonnie Langford played Mel in Doctor Who. That's good enough for me.
* Big Brother - None of that crap where "wacky" "tossers" sit around a house all day. I suggest we skip that entirely and go straight for the bit where Winston Smith is forced to wear a helmet containing starving, rabid rats. Celebrity of choice: Jimmy "The reason I can't watch my TV any more" Carr.
* The Running Man - Oh come on, it's the natural conclusion of the whole genre, and only a matter of time before Ian Huntley gets his big break (both of his legs).
* Chav! - A group of has-beens and never-weres are filmed (using security camera footage only) living - and competing with the natives - in the roughest council estate ITV can find, where they must aim to become King of the Chavs whilst fed on a diet consisting entirely of Red Stripe lager and turkey twizzlers. Then, the footage is carefully edited together and burned as a lesson to all concerned.
* Emmerdale - One day you're an A-list celebrity, married to one of the most famous names in music and doing Hollywood blockbusters. The next, you're in Leeds. Life, eh Patsy?
Tuesday, May 10, 2005
Election News: Part the Last
Election News: Part the Last
I love glorious failure, so it came as a bit of a surprise to see a candidate in my very own constituency – David Marchesi of the Socialist Labour Party – polling a whole 25 votes in the election. Unfortunately for David, he had neglected to fill in his party’s name on the nomination form, so the electorate at large had no idea who he was. Even the Wessex Regionalists and the Cannabis Smokers Alliance beat him.
[Incidentally, Ed on the Farm also had a Cannabis Alliance candidate standing in his area. Not seeing too much of him on the campaign trail, he rang him up and asked if he should vote for him. "Whatever."]
Casting around the nation, I came across Julian Brennan, an Independent standing against Tony Blair in Sedgefield who managed an exciting seventeen votes, beating by four votes the anti-war candidate that stood against Margaret Thatcher in 1983.
However, the top prize goes to Catherine Taylor-Dawson of the Vote for Yourself Rainbow Dream Ticket Party, who managed to confuse the electorate with a series of bizarre websites and by standing in four Cardiff constituencies at once. Funded by one-time friend of Peter Cook, the eccentric Rainbow George Weiss (himself standing – and losing his deposit - in 13 constituencies), Miss Taylor-Dawson polled respectable figures in three of her seats. Except Cardiff North, where she got one vote. One.
Let us consider this. To stand for parliament, you need two things: five hundred pounds and the signatures of ten people on the local electoral roll. You can safely assume, then, at least ten votes, plus yourself if, by happy coincidence, you live in said constituency. Unfortunately, Miss Taylor-Dawson lives in Cheshire, so that’s one vote gone up the swanee already; and ninety per cent of her support managed to get themselves completely off message. One vote should be impossible, but she managed it. We salute her.
Gert at Mad Musings reports on rumours of a Veritas candidate getting no votes at all in Chester. Although, I'd really like this to be true, just to wipe the smug smile off Kilroy-Silk's orange face, it appears there was some sort of Tory/UKIP/Veritas deal that led to our man's late withdrawal. Cobblers.
This is Catherine Taylor-Dawson, chantoose and part-time politician. I’d "vote"* for her.
* give her one**
** vote
I love glorious failure, so it came as a bit of a surprise to see a candidate in my very own constituency – David Marchesi of the Socialist Labour Party – polling a whole 25 votes in the election. Unfortunately for David, he had neglected to fill in his party’s name on the nomination form, so the electorate at large had no idea who he was. Even the Wessex Regionalists and the Cannabis Smokers Alliance beat him.
[Incidentally, Ed on the Farm also had a Cannabis Alliance candidate standing in his area. Not seeing too much of him on the campaign trail, he rang him up and asked if he should vote for him. "Whatever."]
Casting around the nation, I came across Julian Brennan, an Independent standing against Tony Blair in Sedgefield who managed an exciting seventeen votes, beating by four votes the anti-war candidate that stood against Margaret Thatcher in 1983.
However, the top prize goes to Catherine Taylor-Dawson of the Vote for Yourself Rainbow Dream Ticket Party, who managed to confuse the electorate with a series of bizarre websites and by standing in four Cardiff constituencies at once. Funded by one-time friend of Peter Cook, the eccentric Rainbow George Weiss (himself standing – and losing his deposit - in 13 constituencies), Miss Taylor-Dawson polled respectable figures in three of her seats. Except Cardiff North, where she got one vote. One.
Let us consider this. To stand for parliament, you need two things: five hundred pounds and the signatures of ten people on the local electoral roll. You can safely assume, then, at least ten votes, plus yourself if, by happy coincidence, you live in said constituency. Unfortunately, Miss Taylor-Dawson lives in Cheshire, so that’s one vote gone up the swanee already; and ninety per cent of her support managed to get themselves completely off message. One vote should be impossible, but she managed it. We salute her.
Gert at Mad Musings reports on rumours of a Veritas candidate getting no votes at all in Chester. Although, I'd really like this to be true, just to wipe the smug smile off Kilroy-Silk's orange face, it appears there was some sort of Tory/UKIP/Veritas deal that led to our man's late withdrawal. Cobblers.
This is Catherine Taylor-Dawson, chantoose and part-time politician. I’d "vote"* for her.
* give her one**
** vote
Monday, May 09, 2005
The Real Axis of Evil
The Real Axis of Evil
Now it's coming up to that time of year, where, living in a well-known seaside resort, people are expected to go out and enjoy themselves. Our council, bless 'em work very hard to organise events designed to draw people into the town and part them of their money, mostly through car parking charges. Unfortunately, it's simply not good enough to drag them in with the promise of entertainment, a long, sandy beach and a fireworks display. They hire clowns.
Clowns are shit. Fact.
I know some fella who does kids' parties as a clown. He is undoubtedly the most miserable bastard I have ever met.
His stage name is Huntley the Klown* and the kids will sit there, at gun point while he comes out with the worst jokes known to man, does some useless magic tricks and makes a dog out of a balloon on only the twenty-seventh attempt.
And for this, money changes hands.
Top five names for clowns:
5. Biffo the clown
4. Topper the clown
3. Giggles the clown
2. Goatse man and his incredible elastic ringpiece
1. Jacko the clown
If I was George Bush, I would stop all this sabre rattling about Iran, North Korea and Syria, and have a go at the real axis of evil. For once, I'd be right behind him shouting "And don't forget Dawn French" by way of encouragement.
Guantanamo Bay filled with a bunch of red-nosed miserable bastards would be aces. But enough of Sir Alex Ferguson, send in the clowns.
* Not strictly true.
Now it's coming up to that time of year, where, living in a well-known seaside resort, people are expected to go out and enjoy themselves. Our council, bless 'em work very hard to organise events designed to draw people into the town and part them of their money, mostly through car parking charges. Unfortunately, it's simply not good enough to drag them in with the promise of entertainment, a long, sandy beach and a fireworks display. They hire clowns.
Clowns are shit. Fact.
I know some fella who does kids' parties as a clown. He is undoubtedly the most miserable bastard I have ever met.
His stage name is Huntley the Klown* and the kids will sit there, at gun point while he comes out with the worst jokes known to man, does some useless magic tricks and makes a dog out of a balloon on only the twenty-seventh attempt.
And for this, money changes hands.
Top five names for clowns:
5. Biffo the clown
4. Topper the clown
3. Giggles the clown
2. Goatse man and his incredible elastic ringpiece
1. Jacko the clown
If I was George Bush, I would stop all this sabre rattling about Iran, North Korea and Syria, and have a go at the real axis of evil. For once, I'd be right behind him shouting "And don't forget Dawn French" by way of encouragement.
Guantanamo Bay filled with a bunch of red-nosed miserable bastards would be aces. But enough of Sir Alex Ferguson, send in the clowns.
* Not strictly true.
Friday, May 06, 2005
Party: Alcohol-induced chunder woe
Party!
Steve had a moving out party. Despite falling out with the lanky git those malicious “one bollock” rumours, I foolishly accepted his invitation. Turning up on my bike, I leant it against the skip outside his soon-to-be vacated council house and dived into the throbbing mass of humanity.
Perhaps the skip was a bad idea. People, turning up from miles around, drawn in by the thud of music and the waft of barely clad student, mistook the affair for a demolition party, and were setting about the place with a certain amount of gusto. It was clear, right from the start, that Steve was going to lose his deposit.
Not that I cared. This girl from college I had fancied for ages was there. Julia had come all the way from Bracknell just to be leered at by me. She had huge norks, a tight jumper and really, really tight jeans, and tonight would be the night that I would be the manly man and make my move. Right.
But first, a little drink and friendly banter to calm my nerves.
Then, another drink and a few matey laughs to calm my nerves.
And a calm to drink my nerves, buddy. Buddy-bud-bud.
And a nerves to …err… yer me best mate, hic!
Cider.
Vodka.
Vodka.
Cider.
And this was proper scrumpy, from genuine, traditional plastic jugs with bits of tree at the bottom, not that fizzy crap I was forced to sell to winos in my Presto Supermarket Saturday job (Presto’s – the one stop shop for Reading’s underclass that only existed because they hadn’t invented Lidl’s yet).
With the party spinning, and Frank Zappa's classics "I promise not to come in your mouth" and "The Illinois Enema Bandit" ringing in my ears, I stumbled across the room to my beloved, perched as serenely as is possible on a beanbag in the living room. And I did exactly what any teenager would do after several pints of yokel-strength scrumpy and half a bottle of Russian paint-stripper.
“Awight Jooooliah!”
I grabbed her norks and puked down her front.
Putty in my hands.
I was hounded out of the party on a wave of disgust, stopping only to puke once more all over everybody's coats and jackets by the front door, and then onto two people scavenging from the skip in the front garden. I would be persona non grata round that neck of the woods for some time to come, and rightly so. I am still haunted my the look of horror on my beloved's face as I chundered booze and party snacks over her billowing cleavage.
I mounted my bike and made for home doing a whole 3 mph all the way, followed by the local plod, who was laughing too much to write me a ticket for drunk in charge of a bicycle. Besides, I would only have added diced carrots to his freshly-pressed uniform. I was home by nine o'clock, much to the surprise of my parents, who were holding a rather posh candlelit soiree with a small group of friends and influential colleagues.
"Oh! Scary! Home already?" said my mother whilst passing round a rather pungent curry dish which my father had spent the best part of two days preparing.
"Uh," I said, "I don't feel too good."
There was a pause before I added: "Yaaaarch!"
All over the dog, who ate the lot and was soon as pissed as I was.
Thrown out of two parties in one night, and a hangover to match. The shame of it.
Meanwhile, in a council house in nearby Wargrave, my so-called mate Steve had taken pity on the love of my life, taken her upstairs, cleaned her up and had a go on her tits. Bastard.
Steve had a moving out party. Despite falling out with the lanky git those malicious “one bollock” rumours, I foolishly accepted his invitation. Turning up on my bike, I leant it against the skip outside his soon-to-be vacated council house and dived into the throbbing mass of humanity.
Perhaps the skip was a bad idea. People, turning up from miles around, drawn in by the thud of music and the waft of barely clad student, mistook the affair for a demolition party, and were setting about the place with a certain amount of gusto. It was clear, right from the start, that Steve was going to lose his deposit.
Not that I cared. This girl from college I had fancied for ages was there. Julia had come all the way from Bracknell just to be leered at by me. She had huge norks, a tight jumper and really, really tight jeans, and tonight would be the night that I would be the manly man and make my move. Right.
But first, a little drink and friendly banter to calm my nerves.
Then, another drink and a few matey laughs to calm my nerves.
And a calm to drink my nerves, buddy. Buddy-bud-bud.
And a nerves to …err… yer me best mate, hic!
Cider.
Vodka.
Vodka.
Cider.
And this was proper scrumpy, from genuine, traditional plastic jugs with bits of tree at the bottom, not that fizzy crap I was forced to sell to winos in my Presto Supermarket Saturday job (Presto’s – the one stop shop for Reading’s underclass that only existed because they hadn’t invented Lidl’s yet).
With the party spinning, and Frank Zappa's classics "I promise not to come in your mouth" and "The Illinois Enema Bandit" ringing in my ears, I stumbled across the room to my beloved, perched as serenely as is possible on a beanbag in the living room. And I did exactly what any teenager would do after several pints of yokel-strength scrumpy and half a bottle of Russian paint-stripper.
“Awight Jooooliah!”
I grabbed her norks and puked down her front.
Putty in my hands.
I was hounded out of the party on a wave of disgust, stopping only to puke once more all over everybody's coats and jackets by the front door, and then onto two people scavenging from the skip in the front garden. I would be persona non grata round that neck of the woods for some time to come, and rightly so. I am still haunted my the look of horror on my beloved's face as I chundered booze and party snacks over her billowing cleavage.
I mounted my bike and made for home doing a whole 3 mph all the way, followed by the local plod, who was laughing too much to write me a ticket for drunk in charge of a bicycle. Besides, I would only have added diced carrots to his freshly-pressed uniform. I was home by nine o'clock, much to the surprise of my parents, who were holding a rather posh candlelit soiree with a small group of friends and influential colleagues.
"Oh! Scary! Home already?" said my mother whilst passing round a rather pungent curry dish which my father had spent the best part of two days preparing.
"Uh," I said, "I don't feel too good."
There was a pause before I added: "Yaaaarch!"
All over the dog, who ate the lot and was soon as pissed as I was.
Thrown out of two parties in one night, and a hangover to match. The shame of it.
Meanwhile, in a council house in nearby Wargrave, my so-called mate Steve had taken pity on the love of my life, taken her upstairs, cleaned her up and had a go on her tits. Bastard.
Thursday, May 05, 2005
”Fuck me, it’s Billy Bragg!”
"Fuck me, it’s Billy Bragg!"
It never rains but it pours round here. Hot on the heals of evil midget Tessa Jowell, none other than the Bard of Dagenham, who has fled the East End for a life in Dorset, lowering the tone somewhat. Strumming a playful version of "Sexuality"* Bragg came knocking at my door, asking – nay demanding – that I use my vote to stop the Tories getting in *cough* Labour *cough*.
That’s another one tied up under the stairs, then. If you ask very nicely, he’ll sing you a song.
Poor, poor Billy. And he didn’t even call me “geezer”.
Election Day, so vote me up on the following Scary Stories and their political equivalents:
- Party: Lib Dem
- Piss IV: Tory
- Hawk: New Labour
- Shed: Green
- Poo: UKIP
And in a shamesless travesty of the electoral process, I shall them discard your votes and do what I bloody well like. Just like Tony Blair, right kids?
* A bare-faced lie.
It never rains but it pours round here. Hot on the heals of evil midget Tessa Jowell, none other than the Bard of Dagenham, who has fled the East End for a life in Dorset, lowering the tone somewhat. Strumming a playful version of "Sexuality"* Bragg came knocking at my door, asking – nay demanding – that I use my vote to stop the Tories getting in *cough* Labour *cough*.
That’s another one tied up under the stairs, then. If you ask very nicely, he’ll sing you a song.
Poor, poor Billy. And he didn’t even call me “geezer”.
Election Day, so vote me up on the following Scary Stories and their political equivalents:
- Party: Lib Dem
- Piss IV: Tory
- Hawk: New Labour
- Shed: Green
- Poo: UKIP
And in a shamesless travesty of the electoral process, I shall them discard your votes and do what I bloody well like. Just like Tony Blair, right kids?
* A bare-faced lie.
Wednesday, May 04, 2005
"Fuck me, it's Tessa Jowell!"
"Fuck me, it's Tessa Jowell!"
I had expected, living in a marginal constituency in this election, that the great and good would be beating a path to my door, clamouring for my vote. Have they arses. We got a UKIP chap who didn’t even get a chance to speak, and that was it.
All the grown-ups from the cabinet coming down to Weymouth to give embattled Labour MP Jim Knight a bit of moral support, have turned up, posed for the cameras, then fled before the great unwashed voters realised the illuminati were in town and have a chance to get a real baying hate mob together.
So, it came as some surprise, nursing the migraine from hell, that I should open the door to Tessa Jowell, rat-faced midget in charge of the Department of Culture, Media and Sport.
The napleonette in charge of the disembowelling of the BBC. The harpie presiding over a Murdoch monopoly in satellite broadcasting. The one person who could impose decent standards on the press, yet chooses not to. In short, my mortal enemy.
I could tell it was her because of the punkah wallah holding a large sign bearing the words "Tessa Jowell IS HERE". He had the sharp suit of the true New Labour acolyte, and a glazed look that betrayed the fact that he was deeply in love with her. Or Tony. Or both.
I looked at her in my unshaven , pyjama-ed state and gave her both barrels: “Lib Dem. Postal vote.”
That told her.
In fact, if any of you have a sensible question for Ms Jowell, I’ve got her tied up with gaffer tape under my stairs, feeding her live rodents and hoping she doesn‘t shed her skin too soon. It’s for the good of the nation.
I had expected, living in a marginal constituency in this election, that the great and good would be beating a path to my door, clamouring for my vote. Have they arses. We got a UKIP chap who didn’t even get a chance to speak, and that was it.
All the grown-ups from the cabinet coming down to Weymouth to give embattled Labour MP Jim Knight a bit of moral support, have turned up, posed for the cameras, then fled before the great unwashed voters realised the illuminati were in town and have a chance to get a real baying hate mob together.
So, it came as some surprise, nursing the migraine from hell, that I should open the door to Tessa Jowell, rat-faced midget in charge of the Department of Culture, Media and Sport.
The napleonette in charge of the disembowelling of the BBC. The harpie presiding over a Murdoch monopoly in satellite broadcasting. The one person who could impose decent standards on the press, yet chooses not to. In short, my mortal enemy.
I could tell it was her because of the punkah wallah holding a large sign bearing the words "Tessa Jowell IS HERE". He had the sharp suit of the true New Labour acolyte, and a glazed look that betrayed the fact that he was deeply in love with her. Or Tony. Or both.
I looked at her in my unshaven , pyjama-ed state and gave her both barrels: “Lib Dem. Postal vote.”
That told her.
In fact, if any of you have a sensible question for Ms Jowell, I’ve got her tied up with gaffer tape under my stairs, feeding her live rodents and hoping she doesn‘t shed her skin too soon. It’s for the good of the nation.
Tuesday, May 03, 2005
Doorstep: Challenged
Doorstep: Challenged
Electricity salesmen: Must die. In a large vat, along with town centre charity muggers.
"Red or Blue?" he said on his Wednesday evening visit.
"What?" I replied, somewhat taken aback by this nonsensical opening gambit.
"Red or Blue? Liverpool or Chelsea?" asked the grinning fool.
"I don't care. Also: who are you?"
"Ah," he said, somewhat confused that the matey approach wasn't working, "Have you thought of changing to Southern Electricity?"
"Goodbye."
On Thursday, he was back again, and straight to the point.
“Have you considered changing your electrical supplier?”
“Goodbye.”
Friday, and somehow, he is still alive.
“Ha. Ha. I’m not a politician you know. Ha. Ha.”
“Oh for the love of shit…”
“Have you cons…”
“No.”
“..idered changing your…”
“No.”
“…electrical supplier…”
“No.”
“…to Southern Electricity.”
“Yeah, alright then.”
“Really?”
“No.”
God, I hope he comes back. This is fun.
Genius news
Best opening line ever written, ever: "The first time I ever had French toast, it was made for me by a man in a rubber maid's dress."
Somebody, somewhere - please give Green Fairy an incredibly highly paid writing gig. Now.
Electricity salesmen: Must die. In a large vat, along with town centre charity muggers.
"Red or Blue?" he said on his Wednesday evening visit.
"What?" I replied, somewhat taken aback by this nonsensical opening gambit.
"Red or Blue? Liverpool or Chelsea?" asked the grinning fool.
"I don't care. Also: who are you?"
"Ah," he said, somewhat confused that the matey approach wasn't working, "Have you thought of changing to Southern Electricity?"
"Goodbye."
On Thursday, he was back again, and straight to the point.
“Have you considered changing your electrical supplier?”
“Goodbye.”
Friday, and somehow, he is still alive.
“Ha. Ha. I’m not a politician you know. Ha. Ha.”
“Oh for the love of shit…”
“Have you cons…”
“No.”
“..idered changing your…”
“No.”
“…electrical supplier…”
“No.”
“…to Southern Electricity.”
“Yeah, alright then.”
“Really?”
“No.”
God, I hope he comes back. This is fun.
Genius news
Best opening line ever written, ever: "The first time I ever had French toast, it was made for me by a man in a rubber maid's dress."
Somebody, somewhere - please give Green Fairy an incredibly highly paid writing gig. Now.
Monday, May 02, 2005
Doctor-me-DO
Doctor-me-DO
The new Doctor Who is this: aces.
The thing that has caught my imagination is not just the individual episodes, but the underlying storyline that hints of a rather climactic end to the current series and all kinds of fun for series two. You may, for example, have heard or seen references to the words "Bad Wolf" throughout the episodes so far, a couple of words which may be incredibly important, or simply a red herring. Who can tell?
It's not just on-screen, either - there's an attention to detail across the media which I haven't seen for any other programme. You can switch straight from BBC1 to BBC3 after each showing for a "making of", and there are BBC-backed websites all over the place to support the programme:
* www.bbc.co.uk/doctorwho - official BBC page
* www.whoisdoctorwho.co.uk - wonderfully amateurish conspiracy page set up by a chap called Clive, who suffered an unfortunate death at the hands of killer showroom dummies in episode one, now run by Rose's boyfriend Mickey the Idiot, who survived getting eaten by a wheelie bin. Click on the banner at the top of the page and find...
* www.geocomtex.net - Geocomtex, corporate web page of Henry van Statten, collector of Daleks. A challenge! Translate the Morse Code on the "Support" page.
* www.unit.org.uk - UNIT - "ANY threat. ANY location. Protecting humanity no matter how far it takes us." Superb unhinged "Official" UNIT site, with photoshopped images of BBC White City posing as their headquarters. The passwords are "bison" and "buffalo".
There are more to come. The BBC has registered www.badwolf.org.uk, but it's not running yet, while www.bad-wolf.org (registered to a fanboy in Nottingham) links to Mickey the Idiot's BBC-run site.
Obsessed? Me? I'm so excited I could explode.
As an aside - the Dalek in Saturday's episode, we were told, "accessed and downloaded the entire internet". In which case:
"Oi! You! Dalek! Your mum licks Davros!"
The Arse of Lopez verdict, measured on the Duckworth-Lewis method:
"EX-TERM-IN-ATE! FREE-EE-EE-EEP! squelch"
/
The new Doctor Who is this: aces.
The thing that has caught my imagination is not just the individual episodes, but the underlying storyline that hints of a rather climactic end to the current series and all kinds of fun for series two. You may, for example, have heard or seen references to the words "Bad Wolf" throughout the episodes so far, a couple of words which may be incredibly important, or simply a red herring. Who can tell?
It's not just on-screen, either - there's an attention to detail across the media which I haven't seen for any other programme. You can switch straight from BBC1 to BBC3 after each showing for a "making of", and there are BBC-backed websites all over the place to support the programme:
* www.bbc.co.uk/doctorwho - official BBC page
* www.whoisdoctorwho.co.uk - wonderfully amateurish conspiracy page set up by a chap called Clive, who suffered an unfortunate death at the hands of killer showroom dummies in episode one, now run by Rose's boyfriend Mickey the Idiot, who survived getting eaten by a wheelie bin. Click on the banner at the top of the page and find...
* www.geocomtex.net - Geocomtex, corporate web page of Henry van Statten, collector of Daleks. A challenge! Translate the Morse Code on the "Support" page.
* www.unit.org.uk - UNIT - "ANY threat. ANY location. Protecting humanity no matter how far it takes us." Superb unhinged "Official" UNIT site, with photoshopped images of BBC White City posing as their headquarters. The passwords are "bison" and "buffalo".
There are more to come. The BBC has registered www.badwolf.org.uk, but it's not running yet, while www.bad-wolf.org (registered to a fanboy in Nottingham) links to Mickey the Idiot's BBC-run site.
Obsessed? Me? I'm so excited I could explode.
As an aside - the Dalek in Saturday's episode, we were told, "accessed and downloaded the entire internet". In which case:
"Oi! You! Dalek! Your mum licks Davros!"
The Arse of Lopez verdict, measured on the Duckworth-Lewis method:
"EX-TERM-IN-ATE! FREE-EE-EE-EEP! squelch"
/
Sunday, May 01, 2005
Blair-me-DON'T
Blair-me-DON'T
I cannot vote for Labour on Thursday. It's a question of trust.
1. Blair went to war on the basis of these WMDs that Iraq absolutely, positively possessed, cunningly hidden in crates marked "Tractor Parts: For export only" in a car park in Baghdad.
2. This war might have been legal. Or not. In the end, and after a series of Campbell-administered wedgies Goldsmith eventually got himself on message. WAR! It's legal! Honest!
3. There is no trace of those darned WMDs after the tractor parts turned out to be ...err... tractor parts. The legal advice (hurredly written on the back of a House of Commons bar beermat) is found to be a bit shaky after the original draft is found stuffed down the back of a radiator.
4. "Ah," said Tony with not a trace of smugness on his voice, "But the world's a safer place now we've forced regime change on Iraq. Aren't I brilliant?"
5. Goldsmith's advice: "A war based on regime change would be illegal. I wouldn't mention this in public if I were you."
6. Media: "Oh, yes, you've got a point there..."
So, if you've followed this through, the Iraq war has achieved something illegal (though undeniably desirable) through actions which, too, may have been illegal, replacing one homocidal maniac with a whole country of gun-wielding lunatics. And he wants me to vote for him.
No thanks, Tony. Two wrongs, as they say, don't make a right, and I'm sure that the 24,000 dead civilians who have lost their lives in the name of this "liberation" will agree. War is not a game, and I cannot trust a man whose self confessed lack of judgement on the WMD issue has left thousands dead.
You, Tony Blair, can draw a line under it and move on. I, like many others, cannot. I did, however, enjoy you sweating like Richard Nixon on Question Time last week.
No vote for Labour. No vote for the Tories too. I may have to swallow my pride and go for the ginger drunk.
I cannot vote for Labour on Thursday. It's a question of trust.
1. Blair went to war on the basis of these WMDs that Iraq absolutely, positively possessed, cunningly hidden in crates marked "Tractor Parts: For export only" in a car park in Baghdad.
2. This war might have been legal. Or not. In the end, and after a series of Campbell-administered wedgies Goldsmith eventually got himself on message. WAR! It's legal! Honest!
3. There is no trace of those darned WMDs after the tractor parts turned out to be ...err... tractor parts. The legal advice (hurredly written on the back of a House of Commons bar beermat) is found to be a bit shaky after the original draft is found stuffed down the back of a radiator.
4. "Ah," said Tony with not a trace of smugness on his voice, "But the world's a safer place now we've forced regime change on Iraq. Aren't I brilliant?"
5. Goldsmith's advice: "A war based on regime change would be illegal. I wouldn't mention this in public if I were you."
6. Media: "Oh, yes, you've got a point there..."
So, if you've followed this through, the Iraq war has achieved something illegal (though undeniably desirable) through actions which, too, may have been illegal, replacing one homocidal maniac with a whole country of gun-wielding lunatics. And he wants me to vote for him.
No thanks, Tony. Two wrongs, as they say, don't make a right, and I'm sure that the 24,000 dead civilians who have lost their lives in the name of this "liberation" will agree. War is not a game, and I cannot trust a man whose self confessed lack of judgement on the WMD issue has left thousands dead.
You, Tony Blair, can draw a line under it and move on. I, like many others, cannot. I did, however, enjoy you sweating like Richard Nixon on Question Time last week.
No vote for Labour. No vote for the Tories too. I may have to swallow my pride and go for the ginger drunk.
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