Wiki-me-do
Wikipedia is an excellent repository of internet strangeness, collected in the name of "knowledge". You can edit or add anything, and an awful lot of weird stuff makes it through quality control.
I am currently enjoying...
* the Paul McCartney death rumours page.
* a comprehensive (and safe for work) list of big-bust models and performers, just in case you were wondering about Titanic Toni's film career. Whoever she is.
* Hitler has only got one ball.
Other Wiki Wackiness? Oh! Fetch! Fetch!
Wednesday, August 31, 2005
Tuesday, August 30, 2005
On Dating
On Dating
I’m happily married me. However, I am more than aware that there are readers to these pages that are still, sadly, single. You must, I fear, be doing something wrong. After all, even a bumbling idiot like myself must have got it right at least once, and there you are sitting, lonely, in front of your computer.
Get out.
Meet people.
Attempt to see their wobbly bits.
And it is this that I might be able to help you. Far too often, the unsuccessful punter, such as yourself, will spoil an otherwise promising date by saying the wrong thing at an inappropriate moment. So, I see it as my duty to list those phrases that are only going to get you into trouble as your leer down the front of her dress.
The following, unless your are John Leslie, are right out:
* “Tits or face?”
* “I’ve seen Natural Born Killers 137 times. No – 138.”
* “Lionel Ritchie? Yes? YES?”
* "Deep Space Nine or Voyager?"
* "I've got a rubber johnny, just in case."
* "Make your mind up, slut. Mother says I'm to be home before ten."
* "You don't sweat much for a fat girl"
* “Bond. James Bond.”
* "Just checking - do you get 'em out on a first date?"
* "I hope you don't mind, I always carry mother's urn with me. Isn't that right, mother?"
Now, my lovelies, get out there and procreate.
I’m happily married me. However, I am more than aware that there are readers to these pages that are still, sadly, single. You must, I fear, be doing something wrong. After all, even a bumbling idiot like myself must have got it right at least once, and there you are sitting, lonely, in front of your computer.
Get out.
Meet people.
Attempt to see their wobbly bits.
And it is this that I might be able to help you. Far too often, the unsuccessful punter, such as yourself, will spoil an otherwise promising date by saying the wrong thing at an inappropriate moment. So, I see it as my duty to list those phrases that are only going to get you into trouble as your leer down the front of her dress.
The following, unless your are John Leslie, are right out:
* “Tits or face?”
* “I’ve seen Natural Born Killers 137 times. No – 138.”
* “Lionel Ritchie? Yes? YES?”
* "Deep Space Nine or Voyager?"
* "I've got a rubber johnny, just in case."
* "Make your mind up, slut. Mother says I'm to be home before ten."
* "You don't sweat much for a fat girl"
* “Bond. James Bond.”
* "Just checking - do you get 'em out on a first date?"
* "I hope you don't mind, I always carry mother's urn with me. Isn't that right, mother?"
Now, my lovelies, get out there and procreate.
Monday, August 29, 2005
Arse news
Arse news
I was delighted to hear the draw for this season’s Uefa Champions League, in which Arsenal FC will play the Swiss representatives FC Thun.
Poor, poor FC Thun play at the Lachenstadion in their home town, an athletics arena with a seated capacity of (I kid you not) 774. In order to take part in Big Cup, then, Thun have been forced to find a new home away from the village green.
And behold! The newly-erected Wankdorf Arena, home of the equally superbly named Young Boys, who, you may recall, had a few problems with the erection of their new stadium.
The potential for juvenile humour here is enormous. I just hope we don’t have to come from behind.
Irrational Fears Three
As a parent, I am now in a position to instil irrational fears into my own progeny. This is most excellent fun, and, thanks to patient training on my behalf, number one daughter is petrified of clowns.
In fact, she once fled screaming from Ronald McDonald, so that particular burger joint is thankfully completely off the menu.
Scaryduck Jr is in on the act as well:
Scaryduckling: "What's in that van?"
Scaryduck Jr: "Clowns."
Scaryduckling: "Waaaaaaaaaaaaaah!"
Scaryduck Jr: "And they're going to eat your head."
Scaryduckling: "Waaaaaaaaaaaaaah!"
She is eleven.
Apologies for the late arrival of today's post. The piss-poor excuse is that I am absolutely and utterly shagged out and unable to peel my poor, broken body from my bed. Still, what a way to reach double figures.
I was delighted to hear the draw for this season’s Uefa Champions League, in which Arsenal FC will play the Swiss representatives FC Thun.
Poor, poor FC Thun play at the Lachenstadion in their home town, an athletics arena with a seated capacity of (I kid you not) 774. In order to take part in Big Cup, then, Thun have been forced to find a new home away from the village green.
And behold! The newly-erected Wankdorf Arena, home of the equally superbly named Young Boys, who, you may recall, had a few problems with the erection of their new stadium.
The potential for juvenile humour here is enormous. I just hope we don’t have to come from behind.
Irrational Fears Three
As a parent, I am now in a position to instil irrational fears into my own progeny. This is most excellent fun, and, thanks to patient training on my behalf, number one daughter is petrified of clowns.
In fact, she once fled screaming from Ronald McDonald, so that particular burger joint is thankfully completely off the menu.
Scaryduck Jr is in on the act as well:
Scaryduckling: "What's in that van?"
Scaryduck Jr: "Clowns."
Scaryduckling: "Waaaaaaaaaaaaaah!"
Scaryduck Jr: "And they're going to eat your head."
Scaryduckling: "Waaaaaaaaaaaaaah!"
She is eleven.
Apologies for the late arrival of today's post. The piss-poor excuse is that I am absolutely and utterly shagged out and unable to peel my poor, broken body from my bed. Still, what a way to reach double figures.
Friday, August 26, 2005
Senseless violins
Gratuitous Sax/Senseless violins
My sister played the saxophone. She had one tune – The Red Flag – which would parp out of her bedroom over and over. My brother, on the other hand, was rather good with the guitar. Surely I had at least one musical bone in my body? No.
Easily impressed that I was as a teenager, I sat rapt with attention as some long-haired idiot came into our school assembly and demonstrated the million-and-one marvellous things that you could do with a violin. He bowed it, he plucked at it, he played it like a guitar. Gad! He made it look so easy, and frankly, I wanted a go.
Billy Currie out of Ultravox was a pop star and a violinist*, and was also as cool as shit. I wanted in. I wanted to do "Vienna" and get girls.
Seeing myself as the next Yehudi Menhuin, only less Jewish, I was round the music block like a shot at break-time, as did my best friend Graham. Committed to term after term of incredibly expensive lessons, not to mention burdening our parents with the cost of the actual instrument, the two of us cared not a jot, and signed up on the spot.
It was only then that we realised that the violin is a fucking awful and downright painful instrument to learn how to play, and we really, really should have signed up for piano class, where they let you put little stickers on the keys.
Worse, the guy who had impressed us so was not only going to be our teacher, but he was a professional musician of many years’ standing, and had spent most of this time practising like buggery to be able to play the thing like a guitar behind this head. He was also the most incredible bastard.
And if things couldn’t get any worse, in our rush to sign up, we hadn’t realised that lessons were actually on Tuesday lunch times. During break. Sacred play time, for God’s sake, breaking one of the cardinal rules of the playground: “Don’t sign up for extra lessons, you fucking swot”. And I was already doing extra German before school, doubling up on my spacker quotient.
I hated the violin, with a passion.
I did anything to avoid practising the accursed thing, and soon found out that the tuning pipes that came with my hugely expensive rubbish council violin sounded almost exactly like the real thing. I could lock myself in my bedroom for hours, puffing away on the thing to give my fee-paying parents the illusion of genuine practice. Woe, then, that my brother should catch me in the act. He subjected me to weeks of cold, hard blackmail, which I would have thoroughly approved of had I not been the victim.
After two years of avoiding violin lessons on Tuesday lunchtimes (this followed a playground purge where extra-lesson softies were severely dealt with), Graham and I both faced the sorry truth of the whole affair: we were both fucking awful on the violin. I didn’t even pass Grade One, which, as far as I could tell, was given to anybody who could hold the instrument the right way up and get some sort of noise out of it.
Christ, I hated the violin.
Doing anything to avoid playing the bastard, I took to examining it in minute detail, right down to the fake Stradivarius label (“Made in England”) glued inside. It was at this time that I noticed a rather disconcerting kink in the neck of my instrument. I decided, there and then, that the object of that day’s practice would be to straighten it out.
“Crack”, it went.
“Ooooh shit”, I went, which was a fair summation of the evening’s events as the thing fell apart in my hands.
It's amazing what you can fix with superglue, and it is with some pride that I was the only person in the music faculty not to be asked to do something for the school concert. In fact, I was told to stay away, preferably in another country.
And that’s why I want to kill Nigel Kennedy. Perfectly natural, no?
* In fact Currie, while a classically trained musician, actually plays the Viola, the equivalent of turning up for the British Grand Prix in a truck
My sister played the saxophone. She had one tune – The Red Flag – which would parp out of her bedroom over and over. My brother, on the other hand, was rather good with the guitar. Surely I had at least one musical bone in my body? No.
Easily impressed that I was as a teenager, I sat rapt with attention as some long-haired idiot came into our school assembly and demonstrated the million-and-one marvellous things that you could do with a violin. He bowed it, he plucked at it, he played it like a guitar. Gad! He made it look so easy, and frankly, I wanted a go.
Billy Currie out of Ultravox was a pop star and a violinist*, and was also as cool as shit. I wanted in. I wanted to do "Vienna" and get girls.
Seeing myself as the next Yehudi Menhuin, only less Jewish, I was round the music block like a shot at break-time, as did my best friend Graham. Committed to term after term of incredibly expensive lessons, not to mention burdening our parents with the cost of the actual instrument, the two of us cared not a jot, and signed up on the spot.
It was only then that we realised that the violin is a fucking awful and downright painful instrument to learn how to play, and we really, really should have signed up for piano class, where they let you put little stickers on the keys.
Worse, the guy who had impressed us so was not only going to be our teacher, but he was a professional musician of many years’ standing, and had spent most of this time practising like buggery to be able to play the thing like a guitar behind this head. He was also the most incredible bastard.
And if things couldn’t get any worse, in our rush to sign up, we hadn’t realised that lessons were actually on Tuesday lunch times. During break. Sacred play time, for God’s sake, breaking one of the cardinal rules of the playground: “Don’t sign up for extra lessons, you fucking swot”. And I was already doing extra German before school, doubling up on my spacker quotient.
I hated the violin, with a passion.
I did anything to avoid practising the accursed thing, and soon found out that the tuning pipes that came with my hugely expensive rubbish council violin sounded almost exactly like the real thing. I could lock myself in my bedroom for hours, puffing away on the thing to give my fee-paying parents the illusion of genuine practice. Woe, then, that my brother should catch me in the act. He subjected me to weeks of cold, hard blackmail, which I would have thoroughly approved of had I not been the victim.
After two years of avoiding violin lessons on Tuesday lunchtimes (this followed a playground purge where extra-lesson softies were severely dealt with), Graham and I both faced the sorry truth of the whole affair: we were both fucking awful on the violin. I didn’t even pass Grade One, which, as far as I could tell, was given to anybody who could hold the instrument the right way up and get some sort of noise out of it.
Christ, I hated the violin.
Doing anything to avoid playing the bastard, I took to examining it in minute detail, right down to the fake Stradivarius label (“Made in England”) glued inside. It was at this time that I noticed a rather disconcerting kink in the neck of my instrument. I decided, there and then, that the object of that day’s practice would be to straighten it out.
“Crack”, it went.
“Ooooh shit”, I went, which was a fair summation of the evening’s events as the thing fell apart in my hands.
It's amazing what you can fix with superglue, and it is with some pride that I was the only person in the music faculty not to be asked to do something for the school concert. In fact, I was told to stay away, preferably in another country.
And that’s why I want to kill Nigel Kennedy. Perfectly natural, no?
* In fact Currie, while a classically trained musician, actually plays the Viola, the equivalent of turning up for the British Grand Prix in a truck
Thursday, August 25, 2005
Ip-Dip-Dog-Sh…..
Ip-Dip-Dog-Sh…..
That’s me all Thursdayed up, then, which means you probably want me to run some sort of vote for tomorrow’s Scary story. And so...
* Gratuitous Sax/Senseless Violins – “What’s your favourite cake?” she purred. “Soreen.”
* Theatre of Hate – “Jelly on the plate, jelly on the plate” he recited to a bemused House of Commons
* Political Incorrectness Gone Mad – Lightly-oiled TV personality by day, nobody guessed the crime-fighting good Kirstie did in the streets of Kensington by night
* Jesus Saves – “My God!” exclaimed Detective Sloan, “the fingerprints match up – Mahatma Gandhi DID do it!”
That’s me all Thursdayed up, then, which means you probably want me to run some sort of vote for tomorrow’s Scary story. And so...
* Gratuitous Sax/Senseless Violins – “What’s your favourite cake?” she purred. “Soreen.”
* Theatre of Hate – “Jelly on the plate, jelly on the plate” he recited to a bemused House of Commons
* Political Incorrectness Gone Mad – Lightly-oiled TV personality by day, nobody guessed the crime-fighting good Kirstie did in the streets of Kensington by night
* Jesus Saves – “My God!” exclaimed Detective Sloan, “the fingerprints match up – Mahatma Gandhi DID do it!”
“Forty years! I’ve had my no claims bonus for forty years!”
Wednesday, August 24, 2005
That there London
That there London
Yesterday’s trip up to the smoke allowed for a flying visit to St Paul’s Cathedral, which happened to lie on a direct line between the Underground station and the rather plush offices of Ofcom.
Coincidentally, both St Paul’s and Scary Towers are built from Portland Stone. Wren got the top quality stuff, while we ended up with the floor sweepings mixed up into concrete blocks. Luckily, I managed to wangle the lift most of the way to the top on account of my shonky bollocks, though I politely refused the offer of a “laying on of hands”, the manky old devil.
It was indeed a short visit – escorted from the premises for starting a Mexican wave in the Whispering Gallery, just going to disprove that Depeche Mode song completely – He has no sense of humour.
Another one to add to my list, then, of essential advice for tourists, a gag that I’ve been gently refining for the last five years for the day I finally onto I’m Sorry, I Haven’t A Clue.
Pictures! Flickr-me-arse.
Yesterday’s trip up to the smoke allowed for a flying visit to St Paul’s Cathedral, which happened to lie on a direct line between the Underground station and the rather plush offices of Ofcom.
Coincidentally, both St Paul’s and Scary Towers are built from Portland Stone. Wren got the top quality stuff, while we ended up with the floor sweepings mixed up into concrete blocks. Luckily, I managed to wangle the lift most of the way to the top on account of my shonky bollocks, though I politely refused the offer of a “laying on of hands”, the manky old devil.
It was indeed a short visit – escorted from the premises for starting a Mexican wave in the Whispering Gallery, just going to disprove that Depeche Mode song completely – He has no sense of humour.
Another one to add to my list, then, of essential advice for tourists, a gag that I’ve been gently refining for the last five years for the day I finally onto I’m Sorry, I Haven’t A Clue.
Pictures! Flickr-me-arse.
Tuesday, August 23, 2005
Skywatch, again
Skywatch
Watching rubbish satellite television so you don’t have to.
The Great British Quiz/ Quiz TV / Quiz-me-do (Various Channels): Just when you thought they couldn’t make television programme any cheaper, then along comes the Quiz TV format – television entirely paid for by the viewers. One presenter, one tiny studio in a broom cupboard, a cheap graphic package downloaded from the internet and the most expensive premium telephone charges they can get away with.
It looks so simple. They put an easy-looking question up on the screen and encourage you to phone in for a hefty cash prize. And here comes the catch.
Number one: the puzzles are of the fucking impossible trick question variety so Ted Rodgers and that smug bastard Dusty Bin on 3-2-1. Watch may look like a simple matter of adding up a few numbers, is actually a horrifying trip down Quantum Physics Lane via They’re Making It Up As They Go Along Avenue. For example this screen capture via Digital Spy – the answer (which nobody got) is 122, don’t ask me how. They’ve got catch-all rules to make sure there’s only one winner, and a newly created “players’ charter” answers what must have been a deluge of complaints about their programming.
In the meantime, the minimum wage host ad-libs until somebody comes on and takes a stab at the answer, which they will get wrong. And here’s the even bigger catch. When you dial the number, you are charged a pound just to (and I quote the Great British Quiz rules) “pass through a random selection process”. In other words, you are likely to pay your pound just to get a recorded message stating that you haven’t won. Never mind. You are allowed 200 entries per day, and the best of British luck to you. Yes, people do win, but then, they'll need the prize money to pay off their phone bill.
Today’s big money question: Complete the following well-known phrase or saying: “A fool and his money…” Go on, guess.
Funnily enough, I'm in an entirely unconnected meeting with broadcast regulator Ofcom today... C-Band satellite downlink frequencies, anybody?
Tea fiasco
URRRRGH! Agh! Etc! I'm not drinking that.
Anyone knows you put the naked flanges into the cup BEFORE the milk.
Smug
Found on the internets yesterday: The Duck House (circled) - duck's eye view. Jealous, yet?
Watching rubbish satellite television so you don’t have to.
The Great British Quiz/ Quiz TV / Quiz-me-do (Various Channels): Just when you thought they couldn’t make television programme any cheaper, then along comes the Quiz TV format – television entirely paid for by the viewers. One presenter, one tiny studio in a broom cupboard, a cheap graphic package downloaded from the internet and the most expensive premium telephone charges they can get away with.
It looks so simple. They put an easy-looking question up on the screen and encourage you to phone in for a hefty cash prize. And here comes the catch.
Number one: the puzzles are of the fucking impossible trick question variety so Ted Rodgers and that smug bastard Dusty Bin on 3-2-1. Watch may look like a simple matter of adding up a few numbers, is actually a horrifying trip down Quantum Physics Lane via They’re Making It Up As They Go Along Avenue. For example this screen capture via Digital Spy – the answer (which nobody got) is 122, don’t ask me how. They’ve got catch-all rules to make sure there’s only one winner, and a newly created “players’ charter” answers what must have been a deluge of complaints about their programming.
In the meantime, the minimum wage host ad-libs until somebody comes on and takes a stab at the answer, which they will get wrong. And here’s the even bigger catch. When you dial the number, you are charged a pound just to (and I quote the Great British Quiz rules) “pass through a random selection process”. In other words, you are likely to pay your pound just to get a recorded message stating that you haven’t won. Never mind. You are allowed 200 entries per day, and the best of British luck to you. Yes, people do win, but then, they'll need the prize money to pay off their phone bill.
Today’s big money question: Complete the following well-known phrase or saying: “A fool and his money…” Go on, guess.
Funnily enough, I'm in an entirely unconnected meeting with broadcast regulator Ofcom today... C-Band satellite downlink frequencies, anybody?
Tea fiasco
URRRRGH! Agh! Etc! I'm not drinking that.
Anyone knows you put the naked flanges into the cup BEFORE the milk.
Smug
Found on the internets yesterday: The Duck House (circled) - duck's eye view. Jealous, yet?
Monday, August 22, 2005
On men and crying
On men and crying
Men: it’s alright to cry. No, really. Under exceptional and strictly controlled circumstances, it is now socially acceptable to blub like a little girl and not feel particularly stupid about it afterwards.
You may wish to think of crying as a way of getting in touch with your feminine side, only without the risk of dressing up in a soiled bra and panties lifted from your mother-in-law’s laundry basket, mincing round the house whilst everybody’s out shopping, only having to explain yourself away, ever-deflating cock in hand, when they pop back early because they couldn’t find anywhere to park. Hypothetically speaking, of course.
Or simply, you may wish to shed a tear after watching a blood relative losing an argument with a bailing machine, whilst gazing on in wonder at how they manage to fit that astonishing volume of internal organs into such a relatively small space. Your call, even if, as experts in the manly arts agree, crying is the wrong reaction in this instance. A real man should be exacting bloody revenge on the tractor driver at this stage (for example, by force feeding him his own offal), before retiring to the lingerie department of Marks and Spencers to check current stock levels according to the Duckworth-Lewis scoring method.
Times when it may be deemed acceptable to cry:
* The unexpected death of a much-loved dog which once saved your entire family from death in an unexplained house fire. Crying over cats, non-heroic dogs, goldfish or hamsters is out. A real man shouldn’t even possess a hamster, except if prescribed for internal use.
* The birth of your first-born son and heir, on the proviso that the words “look at the lunchbox on ‘im” are spoken as soon as the gender is ascertained.
* "Tributes are pouring in for so-called comedienne Dawn French, accidentally flensed to death on the Norwegian leg of her tour". Crying with laughter - totally OK, fella.
* When Jenny Agutter says “Daddy! My daddy!” at the end of The Railway Children. However, you must then immediately watch either “Walkabout” or “An American Werewolf in London”, and freeze-frame the nudey bits.
Times when it is unacceptable to cry:
* Sporting defeats. Suck it up, man, it’s only a flesh wound.
* When it’s only a flesh wound.
* The death of a celebrity, screen idol or senior member of the Royal Family or self-styled princesses of all your hearts. Get a grip, man! They’re hardly likely to open the sluice gates for you, are they? Exception: Spock’s funeral in “The Wrath of Khan”.
* On losing your job. Revenge, man, revenge! We suggest the following: a scoop of sodium iodide crystals in the toilet bowl in the executive washroom, followed by a hefty slosh of hydrogen peroxide in the cistern. Leg it, and await the screams following the next flush.
* Running over wildlife in your car. It’s not a cute, fluffy bunny, it’s food on your family’s table.
* Getting caught mincing round the house, ever deflating cock in hand, wearing a bra and panties lifted from your mother-in-law’s laundry basket, you frigging used-underwear stealing pervert. Buy your own, for crying out loud.
In summary: No, I'm not crying. There's something in my eye. Yes. Something in my eye.
Greetings BBC Online Magazine readers. Front page of this cavalcade o' filth is here.
Men: it’s alright to cry. No, really. Under exceptional and strictly controlled circumstances, it is now socially acceptable to blub like a little girl and not feel particularly stupid about it afterwards.
You may wish to think of crying as a way of getting in touch with your feminine side, only without the risk of dressing up in a soiled bra and panties lifted from your mother-in-law’s laundry basket, mincing round the house whilst everybody’s out shopping, only having to explain yourself away, ever-deflating cock in hand, when they pop back early because they couldn’t find anywhere to park. Hypothetically speaking, of course.
Or simply, you may wish to shed a tear after watching a blood relative losing an argument with a bailing machine, whilst gazing on in wonder at how they manage to fit that astonishing volume of internal organs into such a relatively small space. Your call, even if, as experts in the manly arts agree, crying is the wrong reaction in this instance. A real man should be exacting bloody revenge on the tractor driver at this stage (for example, by force feeding him his own offal), before retiring to the lingerie department of Marks and Spencers to check current stock levels according to the Duckworth-Lewis scoring method.
Times when it may be deemed acceptable to cry:
* The unexpected death of a much-loved dog which once saved your entire family from death in an unexplained house fire. Crying over cats, non-heroic dogs, goldfish or hamsters is out. A real man shouldn’t even possess a hamster, except if prescribed for internal use.
* The birth of your first-born son and heir, on the proviso that the words “look at the lunchbox on ‘im” are spoken as soon as the gender is ascertained.
* "Tributes are pouring in for so-called comedienne Dawn French, accidentally flensed to death on the Norwegian leg of her tour". Crying with laughter - totally OK, fella.
* When Jenny Agutter says “Daddy! My daddy!” at the end of The Railway Children. However, you must then immediately watch either “Walkabout” or “An American Werewolf in London”, and freeze-frame the nudey bits.
Times when it is unacceptable to cry:
* Sporting defeats. Suck it up, man, it’s only a flesh wound.
* When it’s only a flesh wound.
* The death of a celebrity, screen idol or senior member of the Royal Family or self-styled princesses of all your hearts. Get a grip, man! They’re hardly likely to open the sluice gates for you, are they? Exception: Spock’s funeral in “The Wrath of Khan”.
* On losing your job. Revenge, man, revenge! We suggest the following: a scoop of sodium iodide crystals in the toilet bowl in the executive washroom, followed by a hefty slosh of hydrogen peroxide in the cistern. Leg it, and await the screams following the next flush.
* Running over wildlife in your car. It’s not a cute, fluffy bunny, it’s food on your family’s table.
* Getting caught mincing round the house, ever deflating cock in hand, wearing a bra and panties lifted from your mother-in-law’s laundry basket, you frigging used-underwear stealing pervert. Buy your own, for crying out loud.
In summary: No, I'm not crying. There's something in my eye. Yes. Something in my eye.
Greetings BBC Online Magazine readers. Front page of this cavalcade o' filth is here.
Friday, August 19, 2005
Ministry of Truth
Ministry of Truth
Desperately Making-it-up-as-he-goes-along Productions brings you this recycled tale of woe, re-written with 107 per cent more gags, and the promise of nudity (unfulfilled). Normal service next week...
The stench of poverty and failure. An atmosphere of barely repressed violence and hatred where you feared for your safety every time to went down to the shop floor. Dispiriting fraud and lies on a massive scale. I worked in a Dole Office in Thatcher's Britain, an Orwellian nightmare of misinformation and petty sureveillance.
It wasn't as if the office I was in was in a particularly depressed part of the country, it's just that there were so many unemployed chasing so many jobs that people would do anything to get money in their pockets. I saw many genuine claimants living on the breadline, but I also saw many, many chancers, crooks, scroungers and rip-off merchants milking the system for every penny they could. Not least the local bedsit barons who got outrageously rich by setting massive rents for their crumbling properties knowing full well that the state would pick up the tab for their jobless, stinking, alcoholic, borderline psychopath tenants.
And from above, we got an ever-growing list of exclusions from the Ministry to massage the jobless figures lower to make it look like the wizened old cow in Number Ten actually cared. Being in charge of "the count" I ignored these instructions and sabotaged the local unemployment figures upwards by up to 300 per month. By the time I left, our town (population 120,000) had 15,000 on the dole. So they thought.
What made me give it up to pursue a career elsewhere in the civil service, counting cows for the Ministry of Agriculture was the undercurrent of violence that left you a gibbering wreck.
We would write "PVC" on a claim folder. Not a note to get it covered in plastic. It meant "Potentially Violent Claimant", a person who had a history of beating the crap out of the people in charge of his free money.
"Take a chair. Please. Sir." you'd say.
And they would. And if you were lucky, you'd duck in time and it would crash through the window behind you.
God help us if we ever got one of these types REALLY angry. They made all the nutters come in on Thursday afternoons to get them over and done with, so the police knew where they all were, ie the dole office, followed by the post office, followed by the pub next door. When you finished, you went home and took a bath because you would smell like them. And when it rained, the foul smelling grease got everywhere, and you'd run out and puke.
I walked out the day one fella blamed us for not getting his beer money, and shot out all our windows with his air rifle until the police told him to stop. That was also the third day in a row we got shit through the post and the girl on new claims was threatened with rape. Charming.
The job was made bearable only by a) a rather pleasant female boss ("Who always gets 'em out at the Christmas party whilst singing extracts from Gilbert and Sullivan operas", except in the year I was there, naturally) and b) the claimants themselves, who thankfully kept their clothes on at all times. Some of them never actually changing for several months. We had four James Bonds (deed poll jobs the lot of 'em), a Mr Plonker, and on Thursdays, a gentleman of Austrian descent called Herr Wanker.
Would he consider, perhaps, changing his name in order to facilite his search for meaningful employment?
"Vot? Are you joking? I am a Wanker and proud!"
Later that day, I was called into the Big Boss's office and warned as to my future conduct. Laughing in the presence of the unemployed was not tolerated.
Crappus Jobbus.
Desperately Making-it-up-as-he-goes-along Productions brings you this recycled tale of woe, re-written with 107 per cent more gags, and the promise of nudity (unfulfilled). Normal service next week...
The stench of poverty and failure. An atmosphere of barely repressed violence and hatred where you feared for your safety every time to went down to the shop floor. Dispiriting fraud and lies on a massive scale. I worked in a Dole Office in Thatcher's Britain, an Orwellian nightmare of misinformation and petty sureveillance.
It wasn't as if the office I was in was in a particularly depressed part of the country, it's just that there were so many unemployed chasing so many jobs that people would do anything to get money in their pockets. I saw many genuine claimants living on the breadline, but I also saw many, many chancers, crooks, scroungers and rip-off merchants milking the system for every penny they could. Not least the local bedsit barons who got outrageously rich by setting massive rents for their crumbling properties knowing full well that the state would pick up the tab for their jobless, stinking, alcoholic, borderline psychopath tenants.
And from above, we got an ever-growing list of exclusions from the Ministry to massage the jobless figures lower to make it look like the wizened old cow in Number Ten actually cared. Being in charge of "the count" I ignored these instructions and sabotaged the local unemployment figures upwards by up to 300 per month. By the time I left, our town (population 120,000) had 15,000 on the dole. So they thought.
What made me give it up to pursue a career elsewhere in the civil service, counting cows for the Ministry of Agriculture was the undercurrent of violence that left you a gibbering wreck.
We would write "PVC" on a claim folder. Not a note to get it covered in plastic. It meant "Potentially Violent Claimant", a person who had a history of beating the crap out of the people in charge of his free money.
"Take a chair. Please. Sir." you'd say.
And they would. And if you were lucky, you'd duck in time and it would crash through the window behind you.
God help us if we ever got one of these types REALLY angry. They made all the nutters come in on Thursday afternoons to get them over and done with, so the police knew where they all were, ie the dole office, followed by the post office, followed by the pub next door. When you finished, you went home and took a bath because you would smell like them. And when it rained, the foul smelling grease got everywhere, and you'd run out and puke.
I walked out the day one fella blamed us for not getting his beer money, and shot out all our windows with his air rifle until the police told him to stop. That was also the third day in a row we got shit through the post and the girl on new claims was threatened with rape. Charming.
The job was made bearable only by a) a rather pleasant female boss ("Who always gets 'em out at the Christmas party whilst singing extracts from Gilbert and Sullivan operas", except in the year I was there, naturally) and b) the claimants themselves, who thankfully kept their clothes on at all times. Some of them never actually changing for several months. We had four James Bonds (deed poll jobs the lot of 'em), a Mr Plonker, and on Thursdays, a gentleman of Austrian descent called Herr Wanker.
Would he consider, perhaps, changing his name in order to facilite his search for meaningful employment?
"Vot? Are you joking? I am a Wanker and proud!"
Later that day, I was called into the Big Boss's office and warned as to my future conduct. Laughing in the presence of the unemployed was not tolerated.
Crappus Jobbus.
Thursday, August 18, 2005
Carnival
Weymouth Carnival 2005
To Weymouth Carnival to observe the latest trends in rock-bottom entertainment, and it is my disturbing duty to inform you that our society is doomed.
It's majorettes. Majorettes are taking over the world.
Some people would say that this is A Good Thing, but they are wrong. They are thinking of lithe, supple American cheerleaders in tight outfits who grow up to be Paula Abdul. Mmmmm.... US cultural hegemony....
I am thinking about a bunch of stone-faced boilers, hair swept back into the style known on Popbitch as the "pramface", stuffed into an outfit knocked up out of a pair of old curtains, joylessly goose-stepping through town to Crazy Frog played through a twenty year old Amstrad ghetto blaster. I think you can see the difference.
Of the eight troops of majorettes (outnumbering the Tae Kwon-do displays two-to-one) special horror was reserved for a troop from *cough* outside Dorset, specailly bussed in, I presume to make all the preceeding horrors look better. Even Mrs Duck agreed that at least three of them were probably blokes, on the look out for red hot baton twirling action, but had gone native.
The the Red Arrows came. Excellent!
Also: rather too much of this kind of thing.
Jazz News
No vote-o today, due to the woe detailed earlier this week. There will be both mirth and woe tomorrow, I've just got to write the thing.
Anyhoo, I am indebted to John Morton for passing this rather important news to me regarding the world scud shortage. It appears that jazz magazines rot slower due to their "coated, glossy pages". Also, they are mildy radioactive, which means once you have buried your pr0n, you can still come back to it later with the aid of a geiger counter.
Excellent, and only slightly disturbing.
To Weymouth Carnival to observe the latest trends in rock-bottom entertainment, and it is my disturbing duty to inform you that our society is doomed.
It's majorettes. Majorettes are taking over the world.
Some people would say that this is A Good Thing, but they are wrong. They are thinking of lithe, supple American cheerleaders in tight outfits who grow up to be Paula Abdul. Mmmmm.... US cultural hegemony....
I am thinking about a bunch of stone-faced boilers, hair swept back into the style known on Popbitch as the "pramface", stuffed into an outfit knocked up out of a pair of old curtains, joylessly goose-stepping through town to Crazy Frog played through a twenty year old Amstrad ghetto blaster. I think you can see the difference.
Of the eight troops of majorettes (outnumbering the Tae Kwon-do displays two-to-one) special horror was reserved for a troop from *cough* outside Dorset, specailly bussed in, I presume to make all the preceeding horrors look better. Even Mrs Duck agreed that at least three of them were probably blokes, on the look out for red hot baton twirling action, but had gone native.
The the Red Arrows came. Excellent!
Also: rather too much of this kind of thing.
Jazz News
No vote-o today, due to the woe detailed earlier this week. There will be both mirth and woe tomorrow, I've just got to write the thing.
Anyhoo, I am indebted to John Morton for passing this rather important news to me regarding the world scud shortage. It appears that jazz magazines rot slower due to their "coated, glossy pages". Also, they are mildy radioactive, which means once you have buried your pr0n, you can still come back to it later with the aid of a geiger counter.
Excellent, and only slightly disturbing.
Wednesday, August 17, 2005
Nads Update
Nads Update
The best weblogs tends to gravitate towards a theme, for which they become an authority. Fraser has become world famous in Cricklewood for his skill at the exotic end of the culinary arts*. Gert is THE blogging authority on Opera and the art of performance. Tim Ireland has documented the paucity of government and our descent into the surveillance society.
I, on the other hand, write about my testicles.
Now that I am on the long, potholed road to recovery, let us examine the cut-out-and-keep instructions given to me by Dr Shipman ("Calm down madam - now you've signed these insurance doc... errr... consent forms, it's time for your vitamin injection. Yes. Your non-fatal vitamin injection.").
According to the sternly worded leaflet "So You Want To be a Jaffa", I've got to send two samples for analysis to make sure the op's been a sucess. That's two huge jars, to fill to the brim and cart ten miles to the Dorset County Hospital, with my trousers round my ankles and my face still in the hideous rictus of the vinegar strokes within two hours of scraping the man gravy off the ceiling.
Beforehand, I've got to clean out the old system to ensure that none of that nasty baby-making sperm is present. "The best method of doing this" says Dr Shipman's leaflet, "is through masturbation. This will take up to forty ejaculations and up to two months."
Forty? FORTY? TWO MONTHS? One week down the line, and I'm just about used to pissing out of it, let alone getting myself geared up for a two month hand shandy marathon. Christ on a bike, unless I get used to multi-tasking, I'll hardly have time for anything else; and I am certain this could dangerously deplete world scud supplies at a crucial point in the global war on terror.
Also: "Avoid intercourse for three days before submitting the specimen. Keep the specimen under your armpit. " They were laughing when they wrote that, the bastards.
Pray, then, not just for me and my hairy palms, but for the law enforcement community of this proud country. Y'see, I only ever get quality time to myself in the car these days, and, well, you know what I said about multi-tasking. What could possibly go wrong?
* As a matter of fact, I really ought to suggest sauted gonads by way of celebration of my hideous ordeal
The best weblogs tends to gravitate towards a theme, for which they become an authority. Fraser has become world famous in Cricklewood for his skill at the exotic end of the culinary arts*. Gert is THE blogging authority on Opera and the art of performance. Tim Ireland has documented the paucity of government and our descent into the surveillance society.
I, on the other hand, write about my testicles.
Now that I am on the long, potholed road to recovery, let us examine the cut-out-and-keep instructions given to me by Dr Shipman ("Calm down madam - now you've signed these insurance doc... errr... consent forms, it's time for your vitamin injection. Yes. Your non-fatal vitamin injection.").
According to the sternly worded leaflet "So You Want To be a Jaffa", I've got to send two samples for analysis to make sure the op's been a sucess. That's two huge jars, to fill to the brim and cart ten miles to the Dorset County Hospital, with my trousers round my ankles and my face still in the hideous rictus of the vinegar strokes within two hours of scraping the man gravy off the ceiling.
Beforehand, I've got to clean out the old system to ensure that none of that nasty baby-making sperm is present. "The best method of doing this" says Dr Shipman's leaflet, "is through masturbation. This will take up to forty ejaculations and up to two months."
Forty? FORTY? TWO MONTHS? One week down the line, and I'm just about used to pissing out of it, let alone getting myself geared up for a two month hand shandy marathon. Christ on a bike, unless I get used to multi-tasking, I'll hardly have time for anything else; and I am certain this could dangerously deplete world scud supplies at a crucial point in the global war on terror.
Also: "Avoid intercourse for three days before submitting the specimen. Keep the specimen under your armpit. " They were laughing when they wrote that, the bastards.
Pray, then, not just for me and my hairy palms, but for the law enforcement community of this proud country. Y'see, I only ever get quality time to myself in the car these days, and, well, you know what I said about multi-tasking. What could possibly go wrong?
* As a matter of fact, I really ought to suggest sauted gonads by way of celebration of my hideous ordeal
Tuesday, August 16, 2005
Emergency Blogging
Emergency Blogging
Bum biscuits. Call it disorganisation. Call it sheer unadulterated terror. One thing has led to another, and I've gone and left all my carefully-crafted ready-made Scaryduck files at work. This means - oh God - I'm going to have to write original content this week. Coming up with something for Friday's going to be an adventure to say the least.
Any road up, searching the dregs of my home machine has produced the old fall-back - a trawl through the Scaryduck referrer logs. Prepare to be non-plussed.
The frightening truth is that genuine intermaweb users have found this site by typing the following requests into google. Some of them, I dare say, must have been more than a little disappointed.
* sudden uncontrollable bowels
* natasha kaplinski has anal sex -- number one result!
* "shit on my tits" -- number one result!
* shitfaced -- number one result!!
* pornography vomit and puke on my face
* colostomy sex bag suckers
* "valerie singleton" nude -- number one result!
* ann widdecombe tits
* kate winslet huge melons -- number one result!
* largest ladies breasts in the world -- number six result!
* transexual mariah carey lookalike –- number one result!
Good grief - it's hardly as if I bang on about scat and naked old ladies every day. And if you ask me, I was always under the impression that M. Carey was a bloke - no woman could ever look that freakish and get away with it. He's a brickie from Pigdick, Illinois, you mark my words.
Bum biscuits. Call it disorganisation. Call it sheer unadulterated terror. One thing has led to another, and I've gone and left all my carefully-crafted ready-made Scaryduck files at work. This means - oh God - I'm going to have to write original content this week. Coming up with something for Friday's going to be an adventure to say the least.
Any road up, searching the dregs of my home machine has produced the old fall-back - a trawl through the Scaryduck referrer logs. Prepare to be non-plussed.
The frightening truth is that genuine intermaweb users have found this site by typing the following requests into google. Some of them, I dare say, must have been more than a little disappointed.
* sudden uncontrollable bowels
* natasha kaplinski has anal sex -- number one result!
* "shit on my tits" -- number one result!
* shitfaced -- number one result!!
* pornography vomit and puke on my face
* colostomy sex bag suckers
* "valerie singleton" nude -- number one result!
* ann widdecombe tits
* kate winslet huge melons -- number one result!
* largest ladies breasts in the world -- number six result!
* transexual mariah carey lookalike –- number one result!
Good grief - it's hardly as if I bang on about scat and naked old ladies every day. And if you ask me, I was always under the impression that M. Carey was a bloke - no woman could ever look that freakish and get away with it. He's a brickie from Pigdick, Illinois, you mark my words.
Monday, August 15, 2005
The last turkey in the shop
Inappropriate things to say during a vasectomy operation
1. "Ooh! That tickles! Do it again!"
2. "Did you hear the one about the Irish circumcisionist?"
3. "I love you."
4. "No, I think you're wrong there. The movement of capital will only have a negative effect on the bourgeois/worker relationship."
5. "I'll give you any money if you stop now."
6. "I've had your wife."
You know you're addicted to your weblog when..."
...shaving yourself for a vasectomy operation you're thinking "what could I write about this?", followed closely by the startling revelation that you are prepared to tell the world about the shaving of your knob in a pithy, humorous manner. Still, it's never stopped me before.
Here's a hint, though: Don't use one of those new Gilette vibrating razors - sends all the wrong signals.
1. "Ooh! That tickles! Do it again!"
2. "Did you hear the one about the Irish circumcisionist?"
3. "I love you."
4. "No, I think you're wrong there. The movement of capital will only have a negative effect on the bourgeois/worker relationship."
5. "I'll give you any money if you stop now."
6. "I've had your wife."
You know you're addicted to your weblog when..."
...shaving yourself for a vasectomy operation you're thinking "what could I write about this?", followed closely by the startling revelation that you are prepared to tell the world about the shaving of your knob in a pithy, humorous manner. Still, it's never stopped me before.
Here's a hint, though: Don't use one of those new Gilette vibrating razors - sends all the wrong signals.
Friday, August 12, 2005
Guilt Trip: A Scary Catharsis Special
Guilt Trip: A Scary Catharsis Special
I'm going for the sympathy vote here. You're supposed to be feeling sorry for me while I'm lying here with my groin stuck in a vice. Ideal time, then, to get a confession off my chest.
I sat astride my bicycle – a second-hand Raleigh Jeep – at the top of my road. A colossus of the cycling art – invincible. Pushing off, I shot down the hill as fast as I could, ripping along no-handed like a superstar stunt rider. Taking the bend at the bottom, I pedalled along the bottom part of the road like a dervish, heading for the dead-end where I would slam on the rear brake and screech to a halt in a well-practiced circle of rubber.
Not quite.
There was a horrible crunching, screeching grinding noise, that sounded exactly like a Triumph Dolomite driving over a certain formerly invincible youth riding a Raleigh Jeep bicycle. Congratulating myself on my outstanding powers of perception, I disappeared under the front wheels of a Triumph Dolomite driven by the mad bastard who lived at number 38.
The Sinclairs were one of those families. You know the type: mental. Not nasty mental. Nice mental. Completely ignorant of the world around them mental. Selfishly mental, even. They had no net curtains, and the entire neighbourhood could see how their living room was decorated – essentially a rather large mural featuring many, many naked people with peculiarly large and hairy genitalia. Their daughter, Teresa - in the same year as me at school, but thankfully in a different class - was a spiteful, spoiled bitch who hated us all.
Peeling myself from around his front offside wheel, I managed to stagger home, the rear wheel of my bike bent at a mad angle and worn as a charming hat.
“What happened?” said my mum as I collapsed on the kitchen floor.
“Sinclair run me over.”
“Oh. What did you want to do that for?”
“What?”
“You know he’s always running people over. Death on wheels, that’s what they call him…”
I got better. It was only a flesh wound.
The following week, Madman Sinclair had done it again, his beloved Dolomite flying up an embankment at lunatic speed, ending upside down in a field.
Teresa’s best (and only friend) laid into me the following day at school to say IT WAS ALL MY FAULT. It was, indeed, ALL MY FAULT that Madman Sinclair had run me over by driving his car up my arse, it was ALL MY FAULT that his lack of driving skills had somehow damaged the brakes on his car. It was also ALL MY FAULT that the lovely Teresa had (and I quote) “fallen asleep and her seatbelt had come undone”, and it was ALL MY FAULT that the arse had wrecked his car trying to find a station on the car radio.
“That’s crap”, I protested, knowing full well that she was talking crap.
But then, I was taken aside by grown-ups, including spiteful Teresa’s spiteful teacher and told, yes, it was indeed ALL MY FAULT that this tragedy had unfolded, and I should count my lucky stars that the police weren’t going to get involved and send me to borstal for vandalising the car with the rear wheel of my bicycle.
It must have been true, then.
It obviously didn’t help my cause when spiteful Teresa was paraded in front of school assembly, wrapped head-to-foot in crisp, white bandages. I laughed like a bastard, and everybody stared at me for being an insensitive prick. Still standing outside the Head’s office for three hours isn’t as bad as some people make out.
I lived for about twenty years with this guilt – an entire family hospitalised by my own uncaring ignorance.
Then, one glorious day, there was a blinding flash of light and I experienced a heart-rending "Hang on..." moment.
“Hang on… his brakes were fucked BEFORE he ran me over…”
Mad Bastard Sinclair is now officially filed in my memory as a prize cunt, and yes, one of my happiest memories was seeing his bitch of a daughter head-to-toe in crisp white bandages. She’s still out there. She’s on Friends Reunited and everything. Bitches Crying and Wanking Alone, more like.
Does this make me a bad person? Answer: yes. Yes, it does.
I'm going for the sympathy vote here. You're supposed to be feeling sorry for me while I'm lying here with my groin stuck in a vice. Ideal time, then, to get a confession off my chest.
I sat astride my bicycle – a second-hand Raleigh Jeep – at the top of my road. A colossus of the cycling art – invincible. Pushing off, I shot down the hill as fast as I could, ripping along no-handed like a superstar stunt rider. Taking the bend at the bottom, I pedalled along the bottom part of the road like a dervish, heading for the dead-end where I would slam on the rear brake and screech to a halt in a well-practiced circle of rubber.
Not quite.
There was a horrible crunching, screeching grinding noise, that sounded exactly like a Triumph Dolomite driving over a certain formerly invincible youth riding a Raleigh Jeep bicycle. Congratulating myself on my outstanding powers of perception, I disappeared under the front wheels of a Triumph Dolomite driven by the mad bastard who lived at number 38.
The Sinclairs were one of those families. You know the type: mental. Not nasty mental. Nice mental. Completely ignorant of the world around them mental. Selfishly mental, even. They had no net curtains, and the entire neighbourhood could see how their living room was decorated – essentially a rather large mural featuring many, many naked people with peculiarly large and hairy genitalia. Their daughter, Teresa - in the same year as me at school, but thankfully in a different class - was a spiteful, spoiled bitch who hated us all.
Peeling myself from around his front offside wheel, I managed to stagger home, the rear wheel of my bike bent at a mad angle and worn as a charming hat.
“What happened?” said my mum as I collapsed on the kitchen floor.
“Sinclair run me over.”
“Oh. What did you want to do that for?”
“What?”
“You know he’s always running people over. Death on wheels, that’s what they call him…”
I got better. It was only a flesh wound.
The following week, Madman Sinclair had done it again, his beloved Dolomite flying up an embankment at lunatic speed, ending upside down in a field.
Teresa’s best (and only friend) laid into me the following day at school to say IT WAS ALL MY FAULT. It was, indeed, ALL MY FAULT that Madman Sinclair had run me over by driving his car up my arse, it was ALL MY FAULT that his lack of driving skills had somehow damaged the brakes on his car. It was also ALL MY FAULT that the lovely Teresa had (and I quote) “fallen asleep and her seatbelt had come undone”, and it was ALL MY FAULT that the arse had wrecked his car trying to find a station on the car radio.
“That’s crap”, I protested, knowing full well that she was talking crap.
But then, I was taken aside by grown-ups, including spiteful Teresa’s spiteful teacher and told, yes, it was indeed ALL MY FAULT that this tragedy had unfolded, and I should count my lucky stars that the police weren’t going to get involved and send me to borstal for vandalising the car with the rear wheel of my bicycle.
It must have been true, then.
It obviously didn’t help my cause when spiteful Teresa was paraded in front of school assembly, wrapped head-to-foot in crisp, white bandages. I laughed like a bastard, and everybody stared at me for being an insensitive prick. Still standing outside the Head’s office for three hours isn’t as bad as some people make out.
I lived for about twenty years with this guilt – an entire family hospitalised by my own uncaring ignorance.
Then, one glorious day, there was a blinding flash of light and I experienced a heart-rending "Hang on..." moment.
“Hang on… his brakes were fucked BEFORE he ran me over…”
Mad Bastard Sinclair is now officially filed in my memory as a prize cunt, and yes, one of my happiest memories was seeing his bitch of a daughter head-to-toe in crisp white bandages. She’s still out there. She’s on Friends Reunited and everything. Bitches Crying and Wanking Alone, more like.
Does this make me a bad person? Answer: yes. Yes, it does.
Thursday, August 11, 2005
Lucky Bag II
Lucky Bag II
Greetings. This is a message from the Automatic Blog-u-Tron Post Generator. The registered user MR. SCARY M. D. DUCK is unable to post today for the following reason: He is going to Bridport to allow a man whom he has never met stick a red-hot knife into his genitals.
He hopes, meat-and-two-veg willing, to be able to resume regular posting as soon as possible. He also hopes that he doesn’t pick up some nasty hospital infection and is forced to watch his grollies explode in a ball of flames before his very eyes.
Readers of this weblog who are not aware of MR. SCARY M. D. DUCK’s previous difficulties in the trouser department may wish to catch up by reading this particular tale of mirth and woe from the MR. SCARY M. D. DUCK archives. He assures you that he will be in no danger, and hopes that the doctor will be fooled by the specially-created “stunt genitals” knocked up for the occasion.
The registered user MR. SCARY M. D. DUCK hopes that this is a suitable explanation for the lack of a Thursday vote-o and sends the following message: ”Oh God! What the fuck am I thinking? PS Send money.”
Greetings. This is a message from the Automatic Blog-u-Tron Post Generator. The registered user MR. SCARY M. D. DUCK is unable to post today for the following reason: He is going to Bridport to allow a man whom he has never met stick a red-hot knife into his genitals.
He hopes, meat-and-two-veg willing, to be able to resume regular posting as soon as possible. He also hopes that he doesn’t pick up some nasty hospital infection and is forced to watch his grollies explode in a ball of flames before his very eyes.
Readers of this weblog who are not aware of MR. SCARY M. D. DUCK’s previous difficulties in the trouser department may wish to catch up by reading this particular tale of mirth and woe from the MR. SCARY M. D. DUCK archives. He assures you that he will be in no danger, and hopes that the doctor will be fooled by the specially-created “stunt genitals” knocked up for the occasion.
The registered user MR. SCARY M. D. DUCK hopes that this is a suitable explanation for the lack of a Thursday vote-o and sends the following message: ”Oh God! What the fuck am I thinking? PS Send money.”
Wednesday, August 10, 2005
Cars
Cars
I am no petrolhead, but I drive enough to know that there are cars out there designed with one thing in mind: to get on my nerves. And to be on the road in front of me. Two things. And an almost fanatical devotion to the Pope. Three things. Three.
As I pull on a leather jacket and a pair of jeans with a crease in them, slowly morphing myself into Jeremy Clarkson, vote, then, for the worst car ever. I know about awful cars. I have owned in my time:
- Renault 4
- Austin Allegro
- Fiat Strada
- Peugeot 205 with optional no-faster-than-60mph engine
- Ford Escort
So I think I’m pretty qualified to know shit when I see it. However, nothing can be worse than:
* The Chrysler PT Cruiser. A stupid car for stupid people. Anyone who has spent actual money on one of these vehicles should be hunted down and flayed alive. Hampshire Police have one.
* The Nissan Micra. A car with a rear end based on the Arse of Lopez. To see one of these sewing-machine powered wheelbarrows in the road in front of you is one of life’s more depressing moments. No need to hunt these people down in order to flay them alive, as they’re already there in front of you.
At this point it is also worth mentioning Mansell’s Reverse-Mass Theory: The smaller the car, the larger the driver. As pie expenditure increases, the bloater cannot afford a proper car and will instead purchase a Micra or a Fiat Panda. Fern Brittan, for example, drives a Smart car, with optional pie holder.
* Mini Metro / Rover 111 / Whatever they’re calling them this week because you just can’t rebrand shit. The car old people drive just before their free ride in a hearse. What will out nation’s OAPs drive now Rover have bitten the dust? *cough* Proton *cough*
Pop music's Gary Numan says:
“Here in my car
Something something something
Oh Christ there’s a bloody Reliant Robin in front of me
It’s the only way to live – in CARS”
And you say?
I am no petrolhead, but I drive enough to know that there are cars out there designed with one thing in mind: to get on my nerves. And to be on the road in front of me. Two things. And an almost fanatical devotion to the Pope. Three things. Three.
As I pull on a leather jacket and a pair of jeans with a crease in them, slowly morphing myself into Jeremy Clarkson, vote, then, for the worst car ever. I know about awful cars. I have owned in my time:
- Renault 4
- Austin Allegro
- Fiat Strada
- Peugeot 205 with optional no-faster-than-60mph engine
- Ford Escort
So I think I’m pretty qualified to know shit when I see it. However, nothing can be worse than:
* The Chrysler PT Cruiser. A stupid car for stupid people. Anyone who has spent actual money on one of these vehicles should be hunted down and flayed alive. Hampshire Police have one.
* The Nissan Micra. A car with a rear end based on the Arse of Lopez. To see one of these sewing-machine powered wheelbarrows in the road in front of you is one of life’s more depressing moments. No need to hunt these people down in order to flay them alive, as they’re already there in front of you.
At this point it is also worth mentioning Mansell’s Reverse-Mass Theory: The smaller the car, the larger the driver. As pie expenditure increases, the bloater cannot afford a proper car and will instead purchase a Micra or a Fiat Panda. Fern Brittan, for example, drives a Smart car, with optional pie holder.
* Mini Metro / Rover 111 / Whatever they’re calling them this week because you just can’t rebrand shit. The car old people drive just before their free ride in a hearse. What will out nation’s OAPs drive now Rover have bitten the dust? *cough* Proton *cough*
Pop music's Gary Numan says:
“Here in my car
Something something something
Oh Christ there’s a bloody Reliant Robin in front of me
It’s the only way to live – in CARS”
And you say?
Tuesday, August 09, 2005
Utterly J. Bollocks
Utterly J. Bollocks
This week, I am mostly collecting unusual senders’ names from spam e-mails. Designed as a brazen attempt to get around corporate spam filters, yet still, somehow remain convincing, this is a ploy that doesn’t always work. Did I say "doesn't always"? I meant "doesn't ever". Stand up then:
Antichrist R. Implode (surely “Antichrist R. Us”?)
Unrelentingly I. Profundities
Inseminate R. Ump
Halfhearted L. Musicals
Cats E. Hypnotized
Tablecloths B. Brainstorm
Profanity P. Bulk
Maggot S. Windbreak
Ejaculations J. Revelry
Male O. Nutmeat
One for my work colleagues:
Redundancies B. Imminent
But the winner so far is:
Richer T. Spastic
I blame the parents. I could, in retrospect, make all these names up and you’d be none the wiser. This is Bollards Q. Artichoke reporting live from Scaryduck World HQ.
This week, I am mostly collecting unusual senders’ names from spam e-mails. Designed as a brazen attempt to get around corporate spam filters, yet still, somehow remain convincing, this is a ploy that doesn’t always work. Did I say "doesn't always"? I meant "doesn't ever". Stand up then:
Antichrist R. Implode (surely “Antichrist R. Us”?)
Unrelentingly I. Profundities
Inseminate R. Ump
Halfhearted L. Musicals
Cats E. Hypnotized
Tablecloths B. Brainstorm
Profanity P. Bulk
Maggot S. Windbreak
Ejaculations J. Revelry
Male O. Nutmeat
One for my work colleagues:
Redundancies B. Imminent
But the winner so far is:
Richer T. Spastic
I blame the parents. I could, in retrospect, make all these names up and you’d be none the wiser. This is Bollards Q. Artichoke reporting live from Scaryduck World HQ.
Monday, August 08, 2005
Neighbours
Neighbours
My neighbours have gone on holiday. They packed up their car, said their goodbyes and headed off to France for two weeks. Unfortunately, they have left their teenage son behind to make sure the place doesn’t burn down in their absence. He has incredibly long hair, incredibly long-haired friends, an electric guitar and a love of painfully loud electric guitar music played by bands featuring, in the main, musicians with incredibly long hair*.
Their neighbours, too, have gone on holiday. They packed up their car, hitched up a caravan and headed off on a two-week tour of very slow, narrow roads**. They too have left their teenage children (plural) and a heavily tattooed boyfriend behind to make sure the place doesn’t burn down in their absence.
What, dear readers, could possibly go wrong?
* I have learned this morning this his grandparents are making random inspection visits, thus guaranteeing good behaviour. How we laughed.
** And a Christian music festival. I bet they've got hand-clapping related RSI already.
My neighbours have gone on holiday. They packed up their car, said their goodbyes and headed off to France for two weeks. Unfortunately, they have left their teenage son behind to make sure the place doesn’t burn down in their absence. He has incredibly long hair, incredibly long-haired friends, an electric guitar and a love of painfully loud electric guitar music played by bands featuring, in the main, musicians with incredibly long hair*.
Their neighbours, too, have gone on holiday. They packed up their car, hitched up a caravan and headed off on a two-week tour of very slow, narrow roads**. They too have left their teenage children (plural) and a heavily tattooed boyfriend behind to make sure the place doesn’t burn down in their absence.
What, dear readers, could possibly go wrong?
* I have learned this morning this his grandparents are making random inspection visits, thus guaranteeing good behaviour. How we laughed.
** And a Christian music festival. I bet they've got hand-clapping related RSI already.
Friday, August 05, 2005
Thumb: arse-related woe
Thumb
Breaking bones in your body can’t be nice.
I’ve only ever had the experience on the one occasion. It was an unfortunate incident, recounted elsewhere on these pages, involving my foot, rampant stupidity and a flight of stairs - and I didn’t even notice that things weren’t quite right in the bone department for several days. As a general rule, I think you’ll find that the excruciating pain would be a dead giveaway in the circumstances.
Take my poor old mate Geoff. He suffered badly at my hands, and I can hardly be blamed for that time he went septic. If you’re going to show off gaping wounds, it’s best not done in polite company with a heavy cold, after all. I was there then Geoffy broke a not insubstantial number of bones in his hand and wrist. Not that I should be taking the blame in any way, shape or form. I put it all down to low-quality adult supervision, naturally. And the natural enemy of the adolescent male: girls’ arses.
Kids can bounce off things – trees, walls, each other, and generally escape with only minor injuries. Put them in a school gymnasium, however, and even the most padded of equipment is turned into a lethal weapon. Even the merest lapse on concentration in these hell rooms can be fatal. I should know, and now it must be told: Girls’ arses broke Geoff’s thumb.
Not me. Not little Stevie. Arses. Arses on girls.
In my defence, Mr Prince really wanted us all to be Olympic gymnasts. All his gym classes were geared toward the day that one of us might do a few forward rolls and a burpee to impress the Russian judge and get us up on the podium, preferably with Nadia Comaneci. Prinny had been an Olympic boxer - judging by the twitch, every punch had got through – and he wanted his youthful charges to excel in anything other than pugilism.
So, he set up the vaulting box at one end of the gym, and we had to take turns to run up, launch ourselves lamely off the springboard, do some sort of forward roll manoeuvre and land safely on the other side.
Excellent, if not a little tame.
After we’d all gone round a few times, Prinny upped the stakes a bit. Instead of the tame forward roll, give it a little more “oomph” and flick-flack yourself over, landing squarely on your feet. All except Fat Alan, who was allowed to climb over the box any way he could with the ladder provided.
Obviously, there was a bit of a change in the degree of difficulty, so a couple of lads were stationed by the vault to help their mates up-and-over. After your vault, you would relieve one of the supporting crew, who would them line up for their turn on the beast.
Simple. As. That.
Except there was one minor flaw in Prinny’s plan. There was a minute possibility that, at some stage in the proceedings, you might end up with the two smallest boys in the class on support duty, while some larger, hairy hulk who had gone through puberty years ago would end up charging down the runway towards them.
It could never happen.
So, there I was, Little Scary, glancing nervously across to Little Stevie as Great Big Geoff lumbered toward us, a steely look of determination across his face.
I’m going to name names here: Martina.
Blonde. Lithe. All woman. And the tightest gym shorts you could imagine.
The merest of glances out of the corner of my eye was enough.
Arse! Oh sweet, sweet arse! Such a firm, mellow peach of consummate beauty. Arse of Martina! Arse!
“Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaargh!”
I was snapped out of my day-dream by a blood-curdling scream as Geoff bore down on the vaulting horse at 200 miles per hour. Arses.
By the time I realised what was going on, he was already airborne and, judging by the way he was flailing about, completely ignoring Prinny’s detailed instructions as to how a world-class athlete would do the perfect flip. In fact, the words “sack of potatoes” would have been more appropriate.
Stevie and I did the only thing possible as Geoff careered towards us, sideways and in extreme slow motion: we dived for our lives.
For Stevie it was simple self-preservation. However, my only thought was the safety of Martina’s arse. So, it was only natural that I should attempt to drape myself over it in some fashion to deflect the blast.
“CRACK!” went Geoff as the vaulting horse made a bolt for the door, bodies and gym equipment flying in all directions.
“Aaargh!” went Geoff, holding up a hand that appeared to be connected to his arm at the wrong angle.
“Aaargh!” everyone went at the horror of Geoff’s mutant arm.
“Stop staring at my arse” said Martina. Also: “Aaargh!”
“Aaargh!” I went at the shame of my Martina arse-staring discovery. Also: “Aaargh!”
This story could only be complete with somebody puking up in horror at the hideous mutant hand.
“Aaargh!” went Stevie. Also: “Plep!”
See? Not my fault. At all.
I am so over Martina now.
Breaking bones in your body can’t be nice.
I’ve only ever had the experience on the one occasion. It was an unfortunate incident, recounted elsewhere on these pages, involving my foot, rampant stupidity and a flight of stairs - and I didn’t even notice that things weren’t quite right in the bone department for several days. As a general rule, I think you’ll find that the excruciating pain would be a dead giveaway in the circumstances.
Take my poor old mate Geoff. He suffered badly at my hands, and I can hardly be blamed for that time he went septic. If you’re going to show off gaping wounds, it’s best not done in polite company with a heavy cold, after all. I was there then Geoffy broke a not insubstantial number of bones in his hand and wrist. Not that I should be taking the blame in any way, shape or form. I put it all down to low-quality adult supervision, naturally. And the natural enemy of the adolescent male: girls’ arses.
Kids can bounce off things – trees, walls, each other, and generally escape with only minor injuries. Put them in a school gymnasium, however, and even the most padded of equipment is turned into a lethal weapon. Even the merest lapse on concentration in these hell rooms can be fatal. I should know, and now it must be told: Girls’ arses broke Geoff’s thumb.
Not me. Not little Stevie. Arses. Arses on girls.
In my defence, Mr Prince really wanted us all to be Olympic gymnasts. All his gym classes were geared toward the day that one of us might do a few forward rolls and a burpee to impress the Russian judge and get us up on the podium, preferably with Nadia Comaneci. Prinny had been an Olympic boxer - judging by the twitch, every punch had got through – and he wanted his youthful charges to excel in anything other than pugilism.
So, he set up the vaulting box at one end of the gym, and we had to take turns to run up, launch ourselves lamely off the springboard, do some sort of forward roll manoeuvre and land safely on the other side.
Excellent, if not a little tame.
After we’d all gone round a few times, Prinny upped the stakes a bit. Instead of the tame forward roll, give it a little more “oomph” and flick-flack yourself over, landing squarely on your feet. All except Fat Alan, who was allowed to climb over the box any way he could with the ladder provided.
Obviously, there was a bit of a change in the degree of difficulty, so a couple of lads were stationed by the vault to help their mates up-and-over. After your vault, you would relieve one of the supporting crew, who would them line up for their turn on the beast.
Simple. As. That.
Except there was one minor flaw in Prinny’s plan. There was a minute possibility that, at some stage in the proceedings, you might end up with the two smallest boys in the class on support duty, while some larger, hairy hulk who had gone through puberty years ago would end up charging down the runway towards them.
It could never happen.
So, there I was, Little Scary, glancing nervously across to Little Stevie as Great Big Geoff lumbered toward us, a steely look of determination across his face.
I’m going to name names here: Martina.
Blonde. Lithe. All woman. And the tightest gym shorts you could imagine.
The merest of glances out of the corner of my eye was enough.
Arse! Oh sweet, sweet arse! Such a firm, mellow peach of consummate beauty. Arse of Martina! Arse!
“Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaargh!”
I was snapped out of my day-dream by a blood-curdling scream as Geoff bore down on the vaulting horse at 200 miles per hour. Arses.
By the time I realised what was going on, he was already airborne and, judging by the way he was flailing about, completely ignoring Prinny’s detailed instructions as to how a world-class athlete would do the perfect flip. In fact, the words “sack of potatoes” would have been more appropriate.
Stevie and I did the only thing possible as Geoff careered towards us, sideways and in extreme slow motion: we dived for our lives.
For Stevie it was simple self-preservation. However, my only thought was the safety of Martina’s arse. So, it was only natural that I should attempt to drape myself over it in some fashion to deflect the blast.
“CRACK!” went Geoff as the vaulting horse made a bolt for the door, bodies and gym equipment flying in all directions.
“Aaargh!” went Geoff, holding up a hand that appeared to be connected to his arm at the wrong angle.
“Aaargh!” everyone went at the horror of Geoff’s mutant arm.
“Stop staring at my arse” said Martina. Also: “Aaargh!”
“Aaargh!” I went at the shame of my Martina arse-staring discovery. Also: “Aaargh!”
This story could only be complete with somebody puking up in horror at the hideous mutant hand.
“Aaargh!” went Stevie. Also: “Plep!”
See? Not my fault. At all.
I am so over Martina now.
Thursday, August 04, 2005
Good vs Evil
Good vs Evil
The short, balding man was nervous. He’d been told, in no uncertain terms, that his presence was required in London, and that his failure to attend was not negotiable. In fact, the agency had sent several large men to his house in Switzerland, gently steered him into the back seat of the Humvee and accompanied him to the airport.
Driven straight to the venue, he was cold, hungry, confused. Nobody had told him the reason behind this… this… kidnapping and what was required of him. In the half-light of the small room, he made out a door opening and another man approaching him. Trying not to show his fear, pulled the baseball cap out of his back pocket and placed it on his head, the razor-straight peak betraying the deep, deep anti-fashion he’d fallen into in recent years.
“Nonce Sense.”
“Mr Collins?” said the new arrival, who appeared to be dressed in a white dinner jacket and sparkling bow tie, “The audience is ready for you now.”
“Who?”
“The audience. And this one’s for Sussudio, you bastard.”
He didn’t even see the fist, but felt the white heat of pain, and tasted the blood as he was led down a series of corridors toward a growing crescendo of sound. And then…
And then… a confusion of light, sound, thousands, endless thousands of people corded round him in a frenzy of bloodlust, as he was dragged, urine – his own, he presumed - streaming down his thigh, to the roped-off area at the centre of the massive auditorium.
Manhandled, barely protesting into the blinding light, he slowly came to his senses. His baseball cap was gone. The warmth down his leg had given way to a cold chill, and he focussed on the far corner of the square circle of the boxing ring where he slowly, painfully made out the man-mountain waiting for him. His arch-nemesis. Blessed.
Blessed be, indeed. He had heard what had happened. A landslide of a vote, making him - Brian Blessed, the Dynamite Kid, Prince Vultan, the shouty one in all those other films - the Best Person Ever. And Collins, the dregs, he knew where he stood.
And now, the final face-off.
A bell, and Blessed rises from his corner, an ear-splitting roar coming from his mouth. Not just his mouth – his entire person, wild-eyed, leering, a berserker, bearing down on his quivering body.
A two-handed blow connects to the side of his head. The crowd roars, baying for blood, yet above it, he can hear Blessed chiming the words “EASY LOVER!”
Another blow – “ANOTHER DAY IN PARADISE!”
Thud – “IN THE AIR TONIGHT!”
Thud “YOU” thud “CAN’T” thud “HURRY” thud “LOVE” THUD.
And then, one finall earthquake of a blow, a diving splash from the summit of Mount Everest, the audience screams its approval. Just as everything goes dark he hears the words “AND THAT’S FOR GENESIS, YOU BASTAAAAAARD!”
Dark. Take a look at me now.
It is over.
“Collins’ aliiiive.”
No. No, he’s not.
A Genuine, not fixed at all, vote-o
Yusssssssss. After the travesty of the democratic process of the last couple of weeks (Robert Mugabe would have been SO proud), we are now able to present a genuine vote to choose tomorrow’s Scary story of mirth and woe. Your choice, then, from the following. And yes, I have been a busy boy:
* Gratuitous Sax/Senseless Violins – not what you think
* Thumb – exactly what you think
* Guilt Trip – not guilty at all, as a matter of fact
* Theatre of Hate – the second obscure musical reference today, you lucky people
You know the form by now… vote-me-up!
The short, balding man was nervous. He’d been told, in no uncertain terms, that his presence was required in London, and that his failure to attend was not negotiable. In fact, the agency had sent several large men to his house in Switzerland, gently steered him into the back seat of the Humvee and accompanied him to the airport.
Driven straight to the venue, he was cold, hungry, confused. Nobody had told him the reason behind this… this… kidnapping and what was required of him. In the half-light of the small room, he made out a door opening and another man approaching him. Trying not to show his fear, pulled the baseball cap out of his back pocket and placed it on his head, the razor-straight peak betraying the deep, deep anti-fashion he’d fallen into in recent years.
“Nonce Sense.”
“Mr Collins?” said the new arrival, who appeared to be dressed in a white dinner jacket and sparkling bow tie, “The audience is ready for you now.”
“Who?”
“The audience. And this one’s for Sussudio, you bastard.”
He didn’t even see the fist, but felt the white heat of pain, and tasted the blood as he was led down a series of corridors toward a growing crescendo of sound. And then…
And then… a confusion of light, sound, thousands, endless thousands of people corded round him in a frenzy of bloodlust, as he was dragged, urine – his own, he presumed - streaming down his thigh, to the roped-off area at the centre of the massive auditorium.
Manhandled, barely protesting into the blinding light, he slowly came to his senses. His baseball cap was gone. The warmth down his leg had given way to a cold chill, and he focussed on the far corner of the square circle of the boxing ring where he slowly, painfully made out the man-mountain waiting for him. His arch-nemesis. Blessed.
Blessed be, indeed. He had heard what had happened. A landslide of a vote, making him - Brian Blessed, the Dynamite Kid, Prince Vultan, the shouty one in all those other films - the Best Person Ever. And Collins, the dregs, he knew where he stood.
And now, the final face-off.
A bell, and Blessed rises from his corner, an ear-splitting roar coming from his mouth. Not just his mouth – his entire person, wild-eyed, leering, a berserker, bearing down on his quivering body.
A two-handed blow connects to the side of his head. The crowd roars, baying for blood, yet above it, he can hear Blessed chiming the words “EASY LOVER!”
Another blow – “ANOTHER DAY IN PARADISE!”
Thud – “IN THE AIR TONIGHT!”
Thud “YOU” thud “CAN’T” thud “HURRY” thud “LOVE” THUD.
And then, one finall earthquake of a blow, a diving splash from the summit of Mount Everest, the audience screams its approval. Just as everything goes dark he hears the words “AND THAT’S FOR GENESIS, YOU BASTAAAAAARD!”
Dark. Take a look at me now.
It is over.
“Collins’ aliiiive.”
No. No, he’s not.
A Genuine, not fixed at all, vote-o
Yusssssssss. After the travesty of the democratic process of the last couple of weeks (Robert Mugabe would have been SO proud), we are now able to present a genuine vote to choose tomorrow’s Scary story of mirth and woe. Your choice, then, from the following. And yes, I have been a busy boy:
* Gratuitous Sax/Senseless Violins – not what you think
* Thumb – exactly what you think
* Guilt Trip – not guilty at all, as a matter of fact
* Theatre of Hate – the second obscure musical reference today, you lucky people
You know the form by now… vote-me-up!
Wednesday, August 03, 2005
The Scottish Play
The Scottish Play
I’ve always thought that Shakespeare’s MacBeth was cursed, unlucky, a blight on all those who perform it. I imagine that this opinion was formed the day we presented the Scottish Play on Spacehoppers on the roof of the school sports hall, the culmination of a term’s work at Drama Club, with your author taking the all-important role of Jimmy Hill, Lord MacBeth’s irrepressible, large-chinned man-servant. Not, in hindsight, our finest hour.
Avant garde it may have been, but an experience I shall never quite forget. Especially as we were performing The Bard’s original 12-inch mix of the play, complete with the controversial hamster-juggling scene and MacDuff’s famous “Thou art onlye supposed to blowe ye bloodye doors offe” monologue. We decided, mainly because we couldn’t be arsed, not to include the original songs by Phil Collins.
Our mentor, English teacher Mr Lewis, added his own personal touches to the production, replacing the traditional swords and claymores with a selection of live sharks, a mongoose and several leopards liberally catapulted into the auditorium, which made, in my opinion, the whole production a touch edgier, and added a certain amount of audience participation into the proceedings (Never, in the field of the dramatic arts, have the words “Is there a doctor on the stage?” been uttered before, or indeed, since).
“A triumph of spectacle married to the dramatic arts in the most wondrous form imaginable” - Maidenhead Advertiser
”What the flying fuck was that all about?” - Henley Standard
”A tragedy that could easily have been avoided” - Official Coroner’s Report
I’ll always miss little Stevie. He was the best Lady MacBeth, ever.
Blessed-me-do, Palin-me-don't
With my bottom smelling like a Chinese takeaway, and a steely determination to fix the results before my Welsh arch-nemesis does, we have one more day of voting left in the Best Person Ever Beat-the-Crap-Out-of-Phil-Collins poll. Vote!
I’ve always thought that Shakespeare’s MacBeth was cursed, unlucky, a blight on all those who perform it. I imagine that this opinion was formed the day we presented the Scottish Play on Spacehoppers on the roof of the school sports hall, the culmination of a term’s work at Drama Club, with your author taking the all-important role of Jimmy Hill, Lord MacBeth’s irrepressible, large-chinned man-servant. Not, in hindsight, our finest hour.
Avant garde it may have been, but an experience I shall never quite forget. Especially as we were performing The Bard’s original 12-inch mix of the play, complete with the controversial hamster-juggling scene and MacDuff’s famous “Thou art onlye supposed to blowe ye bloodye doors offe” monologue. We decided, mainly because we couldn’t be arsed, not to include the original songs by Phil Collins.
Our mentor, English teacher Mr Lewis, added his own personal touches to the production, replacing the traditional swords and claymores with a selection of live sharks, a mongoose and several leopards liberally catapulted into the auditorium, which made, in my opinion, the whole production a touch edgier, and added a certain amount of audience participation into the proceedings (Never, in the field of the dramatic arts, have the words “Is there a doctor on the stage?” been uttered before, or indeed, since).
“A triumph of spectacle married to the dramatic arts in the most wondrous form imaginable” - Maidenhead Advertiser
”What the flying fuck was that all about?” - Henley Standard
”A tragedy that could easily have been avoided” - Official Coroner’s Report
I’ll always miss little Stevie. He was the best Lady MacBeth, ever.
Blessed-me-do, Palin-me-don't
With my bottom smelling like a Chinese takeaway, and a steely determination to fix the results before my Welsh arch-nemesis does, we have one more day of voting left in the Best Person Ever Beat-the-Crap-Out-of-Phil-Collins poll. Vote!
Tuesday, August 02, 2005
St Ebeneezer’s Day
St Ebeneezer’s Day
From Old Bastard’s Almanack:
St Ebeneezer’s Day (moveable): the day the first Christmas decorations appear on your local High Street. A moveable feast, this day falls earlier every year, and is expected to fall on December 25th by the year 2015.
Look out for Christmas trees, “Book your office party NOW!” signs and endless, endless Santas.
If St Ebeneezer’s Day falls before 1st September, you are entitled by law to take the evidence into the establishment in question and stick it up the manager’s arse. Houses which haven’t bothered to take their Christmas lights down from the previous year do not count. However, you are entitled to drop by singing carols every day for a week until they get the message.
This year, St Ebeneezer’s Day fell on 1st August, the day a “Why not book your Christmas party today?” sign appeared outside The Pheasant Hotel on the A30 between Salisbury and Andover. The Pheasant Hotel was razed to the ground several hours later in a bizarre Swingball accident.
A Merry Christmas to you all.
Best Person Ever, Again
At last, the vote-o you’ve all been waiting for – the final of the Scaryduck Best Person Ever poll sponsored by our very good friends at The Campaign To Give Phil Collins The Righteous Kicking He Deserves, Thus Fulfilling The Prophecy.
The winner, of course, goes head-to-head with Worst Person Ever P. Collins in a fight to the death of good against evil, and face it, no man who inflicts “Easy Lover” on the world deserves to live.
Getting the list down to a final shortlist of ten was no mean feat, asking myself in each case “Does this person have the capability to kick P. Collins into next week, or has he got exceptionally hard friends or a mental ex-wife capable of doing the job?” Hence, Mandela makes the cut thanks to Winnie’s deft touch with the rubber tyres, and Izzard gets the boot because he’s as soft as shit.
Vote hard! Vote often! Vote Hof!
From Old Bastard’s Almanack:
St Ebeneezer’s Day (moveable): the day the first Christmas decorations appear on your local High Street. A moveable feast, this day falls earlier every year, and is expected to fall on December 25th by the year 2015.
Look out for Christmas trees, “Book your office party NOW!” signs and endless, endless Santas.
If St Ebeneezer’s Day falls before 1st September, you are entitled by law to take the evidence into the establishment in question and stick it up the manager’s arse. Houses which haven’t bothered to take their Christmas lights down from the previous year do not count. However, you are entitled to drop by singing carols every day for a week until they get the message.
This year, St Ebeneezer’s Day fell on 1st August, the day a “Why not book your Christmas party today?” sign appeared outside The Pheasant Hotel on the A30 between Salisbury and Andover. The Pheasant Hotel was razed to the ground several hours later in a bizarre Swingball accident.
A Merry Christmas to you all.
Best Person Ever, Again
At last, the vote-o you’ve all been waiting for – the final of the Scaryduck Best Person Ever poll sponsored by our very good friends at The Campaign To Give Phil Collins The Righteous Kicking He Deserves, Thus Fulfilling The Prophecy.
The winner, of course, goes head-to-head with Worst Person Ever P. Collins in a fight to the death of good against evil, and face it, no man who inflicts “Easy Lover” on the world deserves to live.
Getting the list down to a final shortlist of ten was no mean feat, asking myself in each case “Does this person have the capability to kick P. Collins into next week, or has he got exceptionally hard friends or a mental ex-wife capable of doing the job?” Hence, Mandela makes the cut thanks to Winnie’s deft touch with the rubber tyres, and Izzard gets the boot because he’s as soft as shit.
Vote hard! Vote often! Vote Hof!
Monday, August 01, 2005
Desperation
Desperation
This is the entire word-for-word text of my job interview for the Department of the Bleedin’ Obvious in 1986:
"What makes you think you're suitable material for the civil service?"
"Because you're desperate and will take anybody."
I got the job.
Some other guy told them "Because my Lord Jesus Christ says so."
He too got the job.
He lasted a week after he started beating up colleagues who gave the wrong answer to the question "Do you love Jesus? Do you? DO YOU?"
Pete'n'Dud voice: "What's the worst job you've ever had?"
Wankdorf
Regular readers will remember the greatest news headline ever written:
Young Boys Wankdorf Erection Woe – the tale of one football club’s struggle to build a new stadium in time for the 2003 season.
Finally, two years later, they have finally managed to shoot their bolt, and it’s pleasing to see that ESPN employs sub-editors with a sense of humour:
Young Boys Wankdorf Erection Relief
The Arse of Lopez says:
"Excellent! Faaaaarp"
This is the entire word-for-word text of my job interview for the Department of the Bleedin’ Obvious in 1986:
"What makes you think you're suitable material for the civil service?"
"Because you're desperate and will take anybody."
I got the job.
Some other guy told them "Because my Lord Jesus Christ says so."
He too got the job.
He lasted a week after he started beating up colleagues who gave the wrong answer to the question "Do you love Jesus? Do you? DO YOU?"
Pete'n'Dud voice: "What's the worst job you've ever had?"
Wankdorf
Regular readers will remember the greatest news headline ever written:
Young Boys Wankdorf Erection Woe – the tale of one football club’s struggle to build a new stadium in time for the 2003 season.
Finally, two years later, they have finally managed to shoot their bolt, and it’s pleasing to see that ESPN employs sub-editors with a sense of humour:
Young Boys Wankdorf Erection Relief
The Arse of Lopez says:
"Excellent! Faaaaarp"
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