Picture (clicky to embiggen) from our favourite Viking temptress Misty (would), who still has far too much time on her hands.
Saturday, December 31, 2005
Friday, December 30, 2005
Mirth and Woe: Dazed and Confused
Dazed and Confused
In my short period as cannon-fodder for a large nationwide tyre and exhaust retailer whose name rhymes with "Motorgay", my life as a computer operator became little more that a series of daily rituals. Get up. Drive to work. Batch up jobs. Go to lunch. Pick up a paper from the corner shop. Batch up more jobs. Go home. I lasted less than a year before I fled to the comfort of the public sector, never to venture out into the real world again.
Every day then, my lunch break would end, like clockwork, with a trip to Mr Siddiqi's newsagent round the corner for a copy of the Reading Evening Post, far too much chocolate, and on Wednesdays, the NME.
It became a routine, where I would be met by a beaming Mr Siddiqi at exactly five minutes before two with my Post folded and ready, and a selection of chocolate products ready for my perusal. Then, I would return to work, read the sports pages and photocopy the horoscopes for the mad women in accounts.
One day, not entirely feeling 100 per cent, perhaps something to do with a long mostly-liquid lunch in The Crown, I went through my routine, without really remembering very much at all, apart from the fact that the shop was more crowded than usual, and my that purchases came to several pounds more than usual, even for a Wednesday.
Following a zig-zag walk back to the office, and eschewing the tricky-looking stairs for the comfort of the lift up to the first floor, I seem to remember a rather lengthy, yet strained conversation with Mary the receptionist in which she appeared to be giving me a filthy, filthy look, or, if my luck was in, a right old come-on.
It was about quarter past two when I eventually arrived back in the computer room, the clockwork-driven nerve centre of a thrusting national rubber goods enterprise.
"What's that then?" said Wayne, my Rastafari boss, nodding at the pile of newsprint and chocolate products piled up on what passed as my desk.
"Oh, the usual," I replied, "The Post, the NME, four-five-six-um-eight Twixes and err... something else."
I had indeed bought something else.
We looked down at the desk.
Something glossy.
A magazine.
She stared back, the filthy leather-clad mare.
It was called, and I remember the words burned into my brain's shame gland to this day: "Bounce - Busty Black Birds in Bondage", and featured exactly that. Page after page of outrageously curved Afro-Caribbean ladies tied up with their own string
.
And you know how it goes: you just can't get rid of porn.
"Don't worry your head," said Wayne, relieving me of five quid's worth of specialist smut and putting it in his leather satchel, "I'll handle this."
What a boss.
He still owes me a fiver.
In my short period as cannon-fodder for a large nationwide tyre and exhaust retailer whose name rhymes with "Motorgay", my life as a computer operator became little more that a series of daily rituals. Get up. Drive to work. Batch up jobs. Go to lunch. Pick up a paper from the corner shop. Batch up more jobs. Go home. I lasted less than a year before I fled to the comfort of the public sector, never to venture out into the real world again.
Every day then, my lunch break would end, like clockwork, with a trip to Mr Siddiqi's newsagent round the corner for a copy of the Reading Evening Post, far too much chocolate, and on Wednesdays, the NME.
It became a routine, where I would be met by a beaming Mr Siddiqi at exactly five minutes before two with my Post folded and ready, and a selection of chocolate products ready for my perusal. Then, I would return to work, read the sports pages and photocopy the horoscopes for the mad women in accounts.
One day, not entirely feeling 100 per cent, perhaps something to do with a long mostly-liquid lunch in The Crown, I went through my routine, without really remembering very much at all, apart from the fact that the shop was more crowded than usual, and my that purchases came to several pounds more than usual, even for a Wednesday.
Following a zig-zag walk back to the office, and eschewing the tricky-looking stairs for the comfort of the lift up to the first floor, I seem to remember a rather lengthy, yet strained conversation with Mary the receptionist in which she appeared to be giving me a filthy, filthy look, or, if my luck was in, a right old come-on.
It was about quarter past two when I eventually arrived back in the computer room, the clockwork-driven nerve centre of a thrusting national rubber goods enterprise.
"What's that then?" said Wayne, my Rastafari boss, nodding at the pile of newsprint and chocolate products piled up on what passed as my desk.
"Oh, the usual," I replied, "The Post, the NME, four-five-six-um-eight Twixes and err... something else."
I had indeed bought something else.
We looked down at the desk.
Something glossy.
A magazine.
She stared back, the filthy leather-clad mare.
It was called, and I remember the words burned into my brain's shame gland to this day: "Bounce - Busty Black Birds in Bondage", and featured exactly that. Page after page of outrageously curved Afro-Caribbean ladies tied up with their own string
.And you know how it goes: you just can't get rid of porn.
"Don't worry your head," said Wayne, relieving me of five quid's worth of specialist smut and putting it in his leather satchel, "I'll handle this."
What a boss.
He still owes me a fiver.
Thursday, December 29, 2005
In weekly parts and a vote-o
In weekly parts…
It's that time of year again, when those hideous partwork magazines appear in WH Smiths for their annual airing. You know the ones - "building up in weekly parts, you too will able to build a life-size replica of the Titanic in the luxury of your own home".
The ones that come with a free binder in part one, but mysteriously disappear after part two, when the 99p cover price goes up to £5.99. The ones where the collections of Michael Caine movies suddenly start churning out the ones he made to fulfill contractual obligations. The one called "Tanks of World War II" where part seven features the septic one in your back garden. The never-ending ones about infamous murderers, Hitler and Dad's Army.
And "I Love Horses".
If only they made them more interesting. I would, for example, seriously consider spending good money on Practical Ninjitsu magazine, especially if they've got free nunchuks with issue two, and a free black face-mask with every subscription.
Coming soon then, from deScaristini Publications:
* Slimes and Moulds of the World
* The Ron Jeremy Movie Collection
* Build your own Noel Edmonds (with FREE BEARD in Part Two!)
* Knitting patterns of the Crimean War
* "Wanna be in my Gang?": The Gary Glitter Story
* Crossroads: The Complete Collection
Would I, your humble author rip you off? Send me money and find out!
2005: Arse
As we draw a veil over another year, I look back and ask myself: What have I achieved? Bugger all, that's what. OK, so I have the love of my wife and family, my emergence as a proper journalist, and finally gaining my Open University degree. But did Kirstie Allsop and Sarah Beeny accept my invitation to join the World Wrestling in a Bath of Baby Oil Federation? They did not, and on that reckoning, 2005 both sucked AND blowed.
So, let's see the year off with a vote-o for this week's final Scary Story of 2005, along with my New Year's Resolutions for 2006. Some of them might even be genuine. But which ones? Which? Which?
* The Operator: I pledge to use my powers for evil as the Old, Dark Ones intended, and will start by dropping small change into pub urinals
* Dazed and Confused: I pledge to register World-Wrestling-in-a-Bath-of-Baby-Oil-Federation.com with the relevant authorities and cut through all that "Busy having a baby" / "My millionaire financier boyfriend won't approve" nonsense from you-know-who.
* Potman: I pledge - and tough one, this - to cut down on references to "done a poo" on this website
* Driving Test: I pledge to stop sellotaping my dog Lucy Minogue's ears together for a cheap laugh*. They don't go big on that kind of thing at Crufts.
* Now, that's Magic! : I pledge to obey my legal obligations and remain greater than ten yards from celebrity Oompa-Loompa Dale Winton.
* Dibs: I pledge to stop smoking and use Vaseline like everybody else does**
* Pickle: I pledge to get my book published this year *cough*
* Note to animal rights people and the easily offended. Yes, this is the made-up one. This one. THIS ONE! Argh!
** © Jim Davidson mayherestinpeace, 1983
It's that time of year again, when those hideous partwork magazines appear in WH Smiths for their annual airing. You know the ones - "building up in weekly parts, you too will able to build a life-size replica of the Titanic in the luxury of your own home".
The ones that come with a free binder in part one, but mysteriously disappear after part two, when the 99p cover price goes up to £5.99. The ones where the collections of Michael Caine movies suddenly start churning out the ones he made to fulfill contractual obligations. The one called "Tanks of World War II" where part seven features the septic one in your back garden. The never-ending ones about infamous murderers, Hitler and Dad's Army.
And "I Love Horses".
If only they made them more interesting. I would, for example, seriously consider spending good money on Practical Ninjitsu magazine, especially if they've got free nunchuks with issue two, and a free black face-mask with every subscription.
Coming soon then, from deScaristini Publications:
* Slimes and Moulds of the World
* The Ron Jeremy Movie Collection
* Build your own Noel Edmonds (with FREE BEARD in Part Two!)
* Knitting patterns of the Crimean War
* "Wanna be in my Gang?": The Gary Glitter Story
* Crossroads: The Complete Collection
Would I, your humble author rip you off? Send me money and find out!
2005: Arse
As we draw a veil over another year, I look back and ask myself: What have I achieved? Bugger all, that's what. OK, so I have the love of my wife and family, my emergence as a proper journalist, and finally gaining my Open University degree. But did Kirstie Allsop and Sarah Beeny accept my invitation to join the World Wrestling in a Bath of Baby Oil Federation? They did not, and on that reckoning, 2005 both sucked AND blowed.
So, let's see the year off with a vote-o for this week's final Scary Story of 2005, along with my New Year's Resolutions for 2006. Some of them might even be genuine. But which ones? Which? Which?
* The Operator: I pledge to use my powers for evil as the Old, Dark Ones intended, and will start by dropping small change into pub urinals
* Dazed and Confused: I pledge to register World-Wrestling-in-a-Bath-of-Baby-Oil-Federation.com with the relevant authorities and cut through all that "Busy having a baby" / "My millionaire financier boyfriend won't approve" nonsense from you-know-who.
* Potman: I pledge - and tough one, this - to cut down on references to "done a poo" on this website
* Driving Test: I pledge to stop sellotaping my dog Lucy Minogue's ears together for a cheap laugh*. They don't go big on that kind of thing at Crufts.
* Now, that's Magic! : I pledge to obey my legal obligations and remain greater than ten yards from celebrity Oompa-Loompa Dale Winton.
* Dibs: I pledge to stop smoking and use Vaseline like everybody else does**
* Pickle: I pledge to get my book published this year *cough*
* Note to animal rights people and the easily offended. Yes, this is the made-up one. This one. THIS ONE! Argh!
** © Jim Davidson mayherestinpeace, 1983
Wednesday, December 28, 2005
"I don't do requests"
"I don't do requests"
So, I did a lovely Nativity scene last week, and I haven't gone to Hell yet.
"Go on, do the Adoration of the Maji", you said, egging me on. Here I am, then, doing the Adoration of the Maji, which, as you well know, is impossible to do without the words "Led by a star? Led by a bottle, more like!" setting up camp in my brain and refusing to move out. Three Wise Men, completely Brian of Nazareth-free. If that's possible.
From the Gospel of St Albert, the pathological liar
15 Now when Jesus was born in Bethlehem of Judaea in the days of Herod the king, behold, there came wise men from the East End to Bethlehem; and, lo, the star, which they saw in the east, went before them, till it came and stood over where the young child was.
16 And when they were come into the house, they saw the young child with Mary his mother, and fell down, and worshipped him: and when they had opened their treasures, they presented unto him gifts; a set of golf clubs, an electric screwdriver with a built-in FM radio and a subscription to Judaean Babes; and Joseph said: sorted.
17 And Mary said: Didst thou not bring a gift for the child? He is Our Lord and Saviour, you know. And the wise man Balthazar said: Who do you think we are, three blummin' queens? You just can't get Myrrh these days. No call for it, bloke at B&Q tells us. And Melchoir said: C'mon Joe, why don't you get away from the old ball-and-chain and join us in the Royal Suite for a few bevvies? Casper's got some lady-friends who are keen to see your carpenter's tool.
18 And Joseph said: sorted, again.
19 And Mary was much vexed and sayeth: What in the name of slippery Elvis do you mean 'suite'? All the inns in this town are full, and we are forced to sleep in this barn amongst the cows and the sheep and the asses and the fowls. It's no place to give birth to the Son of God, I can tell you for nothing. Frankly this is worse than the time we went on holiday to Canaa, you know Joseph, when the goat split on us. It bloody stinks in here, and I'm certain the innkeeper's done something deeply unpleasant to our little donkey.
20 And the wise men did smirk greatly and sayeth: It's bloody marvellous being king, innit?
21 And seeing that Mary was much vexed and reaching for a pitchfork, the wise men relenteth and said: Keep your hair on Mrs, here's a couple of tickets for a flight to Egypt. Kids go free an' everything. Can't get fairer than that, can you? We was just saying to Herod - it's murder this time of year.
An... err.. Request
Over-competitive blogger writes: Go here and vote for the blog of the week.
Now, I'm not telling you to vote for me, because that would be A Bad Thing. But: I'll give you any money.
So, I did a lovely Nativity scene last week, and I haven't gone to Hell yet. "Go on, do the Adoration of the Maji", you said, egging me on. Here I am, then, doing the Adoration of the Maji, which, as you well know, is impossible to do without the words "Led by a star? Led by a bottle, more like!" setting up camp in my brain and refusing to move out. Three Wise Men, completely Brian of Nazareth-free. If that's possible.
From the Gospel of St Albert, the pathological liar
15 Now when Jesus was born in Bethlehem of Judaea in the days of Herod the king, behold, there came wise men from the East End to Bethlehem; and, lo, the star, which they saw in the east, went before them, till it came and stood over where the young child was.
16 And when they were come into the house, they saw the young child with Mary his mother, and fell down, and worshipped him: and when they had opened their treasures, they presented unto him gifts; a set of golf clubs, an electric screwdriver with a built-in FM radio and a subscription to Judaean Babes; and Joseph said: sorted.
17 And Mary said: Didst thou not bring a gift for the child? He is Our Lord and Saviour, you know. And the wise man Balthazar said: Who do you think we are, three blummin' queens? You just can't get Myrrh these days. No call for it, bloke at B&Q tells us. And Melchoir said: C'mon Joe, why don't you get away from the old ball-and-chain and join us in the Royal Suite for a few bevvies? Casper's got some lady-friends who are keen to see your carpenter's tool.
18 And Joseph said: sorted, again.
19 And Mary was much vexed and sayeth: What in the name of slippery Elvis do you mean 'suite'? All the inns in this town are full, and we are forced to sleep in this barn amongst the cows and the sheep and the asses and the fowls. It's no place to give birth to the Son of God, I can tell you for nothing. Frankly this is worse than the time we went on holiday to Canaa, you know Joseph, when the goat split on us. It bloody stinks in here, and I'm certain the innkeeper's done something deeply unpleasant to our little donkey.
20 And the wise men did smirk greatly and sayeth: It's bloody marvellous being king, innit?
21 And seeing that Mary was much vexed and reaching for a pitchfork, the wise men relenteth and said: Keep your hair on Mrs, here's a couple of tickets for a flight to Egypt. Kids go free an' everything. Can't get fairer than that, can you? We was just saying to Herod - it's murder this time of year.
An... err.. Request
Over-competitive blogger writes: Go here and vote for the blog of the week.
Now, I'm not telling you to vote for me, because that would be A Bad Thing. But: I'll give you any money.
Tuesday, December 27, 2005
Confusing the literati
Things to do for a laugh
No. 38: Confusing the literati.
Simple. I joined an online poetry community run by a major publishing house, where people who think they might be good at poetry cut and paste their doggerel and everybody else says how good it is that they managed to rhyme “cow” and “sow”. In fact, one chap there had, long ago, decided he was in charge and essential decreed that nothing remotely interesting should be posted on “his” forum. Nice poetry about nice things, and any newcomer was viewed with the deepest suspicion. And it's got to rhyme.
You know, the kind of crap they print in local newspaper letters pages on a particularly slow day.
So, I wrote some “nice” verses about Princess Diana, kittens and falling in love in the moonlight. You know: shit. They loved it and asked for more. In return, I would offer my reviews, which would all be “A stunning indictment of the human condition juxtaposed onto the delightful innocence of your naive verse”, even if it was about a pet pony.
Puppies. Mother Teresa and a few lines about the late Pope. “Pope John Paul/ An example to us all/ He came to us from Poland/ And moved my good friend Roland”.
Sod that. I let them have this, then, my finely honed meisterwerk:
The Knives
Knives in a drawer
"I cut bread", says the first, "The body of Our Lord."
"I cut meat", says the second, "so this family might eat."
The third: "I cut fruit, so they may thrive."
The fourth glowers, far cleaner than the rest
"I have a tale to tell, and 'tis true, by my blade.
"So listen well."
"He came into our kitchen, shouting, screaming for his food
"He swayed, drink on his breath, fight in his fists
"Pulled at her hair, called her ‘cunt’, punched her face
"Again, again, his fists called the tune, she sang the song of fear
"And when she fell, his boots continued the conversation
"Which did not last long."
"Her hand, it found the bone of my black, black handle
"Her thrust, sinking into the warm, red flesh
"Eviscerating, poisoning him with his own faeces
"Blood draining from ripped organs into torn lungs, drowning him slowly
"For I have seen what makes a man live, and have stopped it
"As she cries for lost love."
"Friends, I cut man."
Funnily, no bugger reviewed it. I don't know where I'm going wrong. Maybe I should have made it rhyme.
No. 38: Confusing the literati.
Simple. I joined an online poetry community run by a major publishing house, where people who think they might be good at poetry cut and paste their doggerel and everybody else says how good it is that they managed to rhyme “cow” and “sow”. In fact, one chap there had, long ago, decided he was in charge and essential decreed that nothing remotely interesting should be posted on “his” forum. Nice poetry about nice things, and any newcomer was viewed with the deepest suspicion. And it's got to rhyme.
You know, the kind of crap they print in local newspaper letters pages on a particularly slow day.
So, I wrote some “nice” verses about Princess Diana, kittens and falling in love in the moonlight. You know: shit. They loved it and asked for more. In return, I would offer my reviews, which would all be “A stunning indictment of the human condition juxtaposed onto the delightful innocence of your naive verse”, even if it was about a pet pony.
Puppies. Mother Teresa and a few lines about the late Pope. “Pope John Paul/ An example to us all/ He came to us from Poland/ And moved my good friend Roland”.
Sod that. I let them have this, then, my finely honed meisterwerk:
The Knives
Knives in a drawer
"I cut bread", says the first, "The body of Our Lord."
"I cut meat", says the second, "so this family might eat."
The third: "I cut fruit, so they may thrive."
The fourth glowers, far cleaner than the rest
"I have a tale to tell, and 'tis true, by my blade.
"So listen well."
"He came into our kitchen, shouting, screaming for his food
"He swayed, drink on his breath, fight in his fists
"Pulled at her hair, called her ‘cunt’, punched her face
"Again, again, his fists called the tune, she sang the song of fear
"And when she fell, his boots continued the conversation
"Which did not last long."
"Her hand, it found the bone of my black, black handle
"Her thrust, sinking into the warm, red flesh
"Eviscerating, poisoning him with his own faeces
"Blood draining from ripped organs into torn lungs, drowning him slowly
"For I have seen what makes a man live, and have stopped it
"As she cries for lost love."
"Friends, I cut man."
Funnily, no bugger reviewed it. I don't know where I'm going wrong. Maybe I should have made it rhyme.
Saturday, December 24, 2005
Ho. Ho. Ho.
Ho. Ho. Ho.
A Happy non-denominational end-of-year celebration to all our readers. And if you think I've gone all politically correct on you, a Happy Christmas, too.
(Pic from Misty, who has far too much time on her hands.)
A Happy non-denominational end-of-year celebration to all our readers. And if you think I've gone all politically correct on you, a Happy Christmas, too.(Pic from Misty, who has far too much time on her hands.)
Friday, December 23, 2005
A Christmas Tale
A Christmas Tale
From the Gospel of St Albert, the pathological liar
9: And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night. And, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them: and they were sore afraid to the point of trouser-spoilage.
10: And the angel said unto them, Pick a card, any card. Look, there's nothing up my sleeve. You'll like this. Not a lot.
11: And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying, You bloody liar Gabriel, we saw you hide the King of Spades up there ten minutes ago. Besides, Paul Daniels is much better, the lovely Debbie McGee's got smashing legs.
12: And the Angel said unto the heavenly host, You bastards, you never let me have any fun, it's not as if I was going double or quits or anything. Besides, if Paul bloody Daniels is so good, how come he can't stop his house from flooding? Answer me that, eh. Just wait until I win my flaming sword back from the Metratron, then I'll show you.
13: And the heavenly host mocked the angel and said, At least Paul Daniels doesn't go out with his robe tucked into his y-fronts; and lo, they gave the angel a wedgie, and there was great rejoicing.
14: And it came to pass, as the angels were gone away from them into heaven, the shepherds said one to another, What the bloody hell was that all about then? Pass the sheep, Matthias. Going to the stoning tomorrow?
From the Gospel of St Albert, the pathological liar9: And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night. And, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them: and they were sore afraid to the point of trouser-spoilage.
10: And the angel said unto them, Pick a card, any card. Look, there's nothing up my sleeve. You'll like this. Not a lot.
11: And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying, You bloody liar Gabriel, we saw you hide the King of Spades up there ten minutes ago. Besides, Paul Daniels is much better, the lovely Debbie McGee's got smashing legs.
12: And the Angel said unto the heavenly host, You bastards, you never let me have any fun, it's not as if I was going double or quits or anything. Besides, if Paul bloody Daniels is so good, how come he can't stop his house from flooding? Answer me that, eh. Just wait until I win my flaming sword back from the Metratron, then I'll show you.
13: And the heavenly host mocked the angel and said, At least Paul Daniels doesn't go out with his robe tucked into his y-fronts; and lo, they gave the angel a wedgie, and there was great rejoicing.
14: And it came to pass, as the angels were gone away from them into heaven, the shepherds said one to another, What the bloody hell was that all about then? Pass the sheep, Matthias. Going to the stoning tomorrow?
Thursday, December 22, 2005
The Christmas Vote-o
The Christmas Vote-o
Ho. Ho. And indeed, "Ho". I have stories that number four. And "four" are the number of stories I have. As a matter of fact, I actually have thirty-two, but things could get messy and there may be fatalities, and Baby Jesus will come looking for you with a clunking great spanner screaming "Myrrh! Myrrh! Give me MYRRRRRH!", and then where will we be?
Vote, then for one of these:
* The Operator - "Now listen carefully, 007", said Q, "This may look like a sixteen-inch Monster Kong dildo, but if you twist this end through ninety degrees..."
* Dazed and Confused - At last, Camilla had solved the mystery of her missing laundry. Over Christmas dinner, she dropped the bombshell: "Don't you think the Earl of Wessex is looking bustier than usual?" The Duke of Edinburgh harumphed and hoped nobody would notice his panty-line.
* Potman - Yoko smiled as another royalty cheque for "Merry Xmas (War is Over)" thudded onto her doormat. Opening a secret door known only to a select few, she descended the stairs to the lab, where the final touches were being made to her meisterwerk - the JohnLennonKillBot2000. The war, she knew, would soon be starting over, and, oh yes, this time she would win.
* Driving Test - "What have you got to lose?" his colleagues had suggested, "Tell her she's got great tits and you'll be laughing." So he did, and the former Sir Norman Wisdom found out that Her Majesty's sword was not entirely for ceremonial purposes.
Or simply, you could just save me the effort, and go for:
* The Christmas Tale 'o Doom - And they came with haste, and found Mary, and Joseph, and the babe lying in a manger. And Mary said, "It's a girl!"
...the Official Scaryduck Christmas Greeting, which will virtually guarantee my fate in the burning pits of Hell. Heigh ho, look on the bright side - at least I'll stay warm in the forthcoming Ice Age.
And in real-life news
My Open University exam result thundered into my inbox yesterday like a big thundery thing.
That's S. Duck BSc (Hons), Dip Pol, Cert Soc Sci (Open), to you.
That deserves a honk.
HONK!
Ho. Ho. And indeed, "Ho". I have stories that number four. And "four" are the number of stories I have. As a matter of fact, I actually have thirty-two, but things could get messy and there may be fatalities, and Baby Jesus will come looking for you with a clunking great spanner screaming "Myrrh! Myrrh! Give me MYRRRRRH!", and then where will we be?
Vote, then for one of these:
* The Operator - "Now listen carefully, 007", said Q, "This may look like a sixteen-inch Monster Kong dildo, but if you twist this end through ninety degrees..."
* Dazed and Confused - At last, Camilla had solved the mystery of her missing laundry. Over Christmas dinner, she dropped the bombshell: "Don't you think the Earl of Wessex is looking bustier than usual?" The Duke of Edinburgh harumphed and hoped nobody would notice his panty-line.
* Potman - Yoko smiled as another royalty cheque for "Merry Xmas (War is Over)" thudded onto her doormat. Opening a secret door known only to a select few, she descended the stairs to the lab, where the final touches were being made to her meisterwerk - the JohnLennonKillBot2000. The war, she knew, would soon be starting over, and, oh yes, this time she would win.
* Driving Test - "What have you got to lose?" his colleagues had suggested, "Tell her she's got great tits and you'll be laughing." So he did, and the former Sir Norman Wisdom found out that Her Majesty's sword was not entirely for ceremonial purposes.
Or simply, you could just save me the effort, and go for:
* The Christmas Tale 'o Doom - And they came with haste, and found Mary, and Joseph, and the babe lying in a manger. And Mary said, "It's a girl!"
...the Official Scaryduck Christmas Greeting, which will virtually guarantee my fate in the burning pits of Hell. Heigh ho, look on the bright side - at least I'll stay warm in the forthcoming Ice Age.
And in real-life news
My Open University exam result thundered into my inbox yesterday like a big thundery thing.
That's S. Duck BSc (Hons), Dip Pol, Cert Soc Sci (Open), to you.
That deserves a honk.
HONK!
Wednesday, December 21, 2005
Triple pluggage
Pluggage
My colleague Wanabehuman tells me he is celebrating six months in the world of weblog, and could I, perhaps, mark this auspicious occasion with a peer review of his work?
"A free plug, you mean?"
"That's the ticket. And could you tell them we need writers?"
Wanabehuman, then, is a brave stab at the Citizen-Journalism concept that is generating a fair amount of comment on the internet; not least from genuine journalists who don't like the fact their job isn't all that difficult getting out.
The site itself, though densely packed with information, is much less of a dog's dinner than it used to be, and now boasts articles from genuine journalists Phillip Knightley, Sharmeen Obaid-Chinoy and Munira Mirza, giving it the gravitas and diversity it warrants.
Intelligent writing with a global perspective is rare anywhere on the internet - this site is worthy of far greater exposure than it currently gets, and deserves greater recognition for its brave step into the near-virgin territory of the citizen-journalist-blogger.
They need writers.
Will that do?
More pluggage
I've just found out that my cousin Andy is the brains behind this and this; which just goes to show how little I know my own family. Wow.
Even more pluggage
Jane's got a new thing, a blog about the magic televisual-receiving apparatus that seems to be gaining popularity amongst the lower classes. Hoorah!
Also: Oh Lordy! That mad bugger's back from the Front. Mehhhh!
And because I'm already receiving complaints about the lack of scatalogical action in today's blog: "Done a Poo". Scored 13/20: "Katy Hill and Janet Ellis eating a banana suggestively" on the Scaryduckworth-Lewis scale.
Happy?
My colleague Wanabehuman tells me he is celebrating six months in the world of weblog, and could I, perhaps, mark this auspicious occasion with a peer review of his work?
"A free plug, you mean?"
"That's the ticket. And could you tell them we need writers?"
Wanabehuman, then, is a brave stab at the Citizen-Journalism concept that is generating a fair amount of comment on the internet; not least from genuine journalists who don't like the fact their job isn't all that difficult getting out.
The site itself, though densely packed with information, is much less of a dog's dinner than it used to be, and now boasts articles from genuine journalists Phillip Knightley, Sharmeen Obaid-Chinoy and Munira Mirza, giving it the gravitas and diversity it warrants.
Intelligent writing with a global perspective is rare anywhere on the internet - this site is worthy of far greater exposure than it currently gets, and deserves greater recognition for its brave step into the near-virgin territory of the citizen-journalist-blogger.
They need writers.
Will that do?
More pluggage
I've just found out that my cousin Andy is the brains behind this and this; which just goes to show how little I know my own family. Wow.
Even more pluggage
Jane's got a new thing, a blog about the magic televisual-receiving apparatus that seems to be gaining popularity amongst the lower classes. Hoorah!
Also: Oh Lordy! That mad bugger's back from the Front. Mehhhh!
And because I'm already receiving complaints about the lack of scatalogical action in today's blog: "Done a Poo". Scored 13/20: "Katy Hill and Janet Ellis eating a banana suggestively" on the Scaryduckworth-Lewis scale.
Happy?
Tuesday, December 20, 2005
Get Lost II
Get Lost II
Following up on yesterday's post, I thought I might illustrate my utter lack of sense of direction through Monday's drive to work.
I have worked in the same building in Reading for the best part of 16 years, nine months and 24 days. You would have thought that I'd know where it is by now. Granted, I couldn't find it on my first day, but I really did think I was over that by now.
My trip to work isn't your average. While most people live within easy reach of their place of employment, home and office in my case are 107 miles apart. I've driven the same route for long enough, however, to end up in the right county nine times out of ten.
So, having just roared out of Salisbury - the halfway point on yesterday's journey, it was with some annoyance that I found myself stuck behind the natural enemy of the maniacal driver - the Tesco lorry, bumbling along at 40mph towards Andover.
Well, I was having none of it. I knew a shortcut, one which would zoom me along to the A303, past this forty ton motoring menace and onwards, ever onwards towards Basingstoke. I knew it was a shortcut, because I'd driven along it before. About fifteen years previously. In the other direction.
"Save seconds on your journey!" it beckoned to me, "Turn right down here."
Without even signalling, I dived down the road to Stockbridge, wherever that is.
It was half an hour later, as the sun started to rise, that I was becoming more than a little worried about the number of road signs egging me on toward Southampton. Before I knew it, I was in some housing estate in Winchester, my throat aching from repeated screams of "BLOODY-FUCKING-WHERE-THE-BLOODY-FUCK-IS-THE-FUCKING-MOTORWAY!"
Then, blessed relief as I spot a small blue sign: "M3". I knew the M3 went past Winchester. Thatcher's legacy of rural vandalism as Twyford Down ripped through the local hills, destroying the Hampshire countryside forever in the quest to knock five minutes of car journeys, and I hope they bury her in the fast lane, while she's still breathing.
Back to the chase: I followed the signs to the M3. For a very, very long time. In fact, I followed signs to the M3 which also read things like "Southampton 6 miles" and "Going to Portsmouth? Nearly there, fella!"
At last, I reached the motorway, somewhere near the entrance to Hell that is Eastleigh, and headed, at long last, in the right direction, having only wasted an hour and approximately thirty miles. Losing the advantage of my early start, which would normally see me flying into work, I was now stuck in the Monday morning rush hour, and joined the crawl up the M3 toward London and then on through Reading, officially the worst town on the planet for stupid road junctions. I got to work just in time to knock off.
I have spent some time studying a map to find out where I went wrong:
i) Don't take shortcuts. That is why they have main roads, because they go where you are heading
ii) Never follow signs to Winchester. You'll only regret it later
I wouldn't complain, but I've taken two days off this week just so I can get home in time for Christmas. David Blunkett, I fear, is a better driver than I.
Following up on yesterday's post, I thought I might illustrate my utter lack of sense of direction through Monday's drive to work.
I have worked in the same building in Reading for the best part of 16 years, nine months and 24 days. You would have thought that I'd know where it is by now. Granted, I couldn't find it on my first day, but I really did think I was over that by now.
My trip to work isn't your average. While most people live within easy reach of their place of employment, home and office in my case are 107 miles apart. I've driven the same route for long enough, however, to end up in the right county nine times out of ten.
So, having just roared out of Salisbury - the halfway point on yesterday's journey, it was with some annoyance that I found myself stuck behind the natural enemy of the maniacal driver - the Tesco lorry, bumbling along at 40mph towards Andover.
Well, I was having none of it. I knew a shortcut, one which would zoom me along to the A303, past this forty ton motoring menace and onwards, ever onwards towards Basingstoke. I knew it was a shortcut, because I'd driven along it before. About fifteen years previously. In the other direction.
"Save seconds on your journey!" it beckoned to me, "Turn right down here."
Without even signalling, I dived down the road to Stockbridge, wherever that is.
It was half an hour later, as the sun started to rise, that I was becoming more than a little worried about the number of road signs egging me on toward Southampton. Before I knew it, I was in some housing estate in Winchester, my throat aching from repeated screams of "BLOODY-FUCKING-WHERE-THE-BLOODY-FUCK-IS-THE-FUCKING-MOTORWAY!"
Then, blessed relief as I spot a small blue sign: "M3". I knew the M3 went past Winchester. Thatcher's legacy of rural vandalism as Twyford Down ripped through the local hills, destroying the Hampshire countryside forever in the quest to knock five minutes of car journeys, and I hope they bury her in the fast lane, while she's still breathing.
Back to the chase: I followed the signs to the M3. For a very, very long time. In fact, I followed signs to the M3 which also read things like "Southampton 6 miles" and "Going to Portsmouth? Nearly there, fella!"
At last, I reached the motorway, somewhere near the entrance to Hell that is Eastleigh, and headed, at long last, in the right direction, having only wasted an hour and approximately thirty miles. Losing the advantage of my early start, which would normally see me flying into work, I was now stuck in the Monday morning rush hour, and joined the crawl up the M3 toward London and then on through Reading, officially the worst town on the planet for stupid road junctions. I got to work just in time to knock off.
I have spent some time studying a map to find out where I went wrong:
i) Don't take shortcuts. That is why they have main roads, because they go where you are heading
ii) Never follow signs to Winchester. You'll only regret it later
I wouldn't complain, but I've taken two days off this week just so I can get home in time for Christmas. David Blunkett, I fear, is a better driver than I.
Monday, December 19, 2005
Get Lost
Get Lost
I used to have the best sense of direction ever. I could find my way anywhere - even at night - just by looking at the sky, recognising a landmark and marching off in the right direction.
It was uncanny - the merest look at the landscape around me, and I could tell, down to the nearest square metre, exactly where I was, where I was going, and how many minutes it was until the next public house. Who needs a map and compass, when you've got a pigeon's homing gland grafted onto the back of your head?
Plonk me down in the middle of the country in the middle of the night - and good God, both my parents and my Scout troop did just that with a disturbing regularity - and I would be home, grinning like a smug bastard just as they stepped out of the car.
These days, I get lost in my own bathroom, and if actually told to "Get Lost", the chances are I will.
What the bloody hell's happened there, then? I've gone from Indian tracker to bloke-holding-map-upside-down-and-getting-rubbish-directions-from-equally-lost-traffic-wardens in the space of a few short years.
It's not as if I took a knock on the head and all my l33t mapping skills disappeared overnight, because I can still read a map, even if I have to refer to it every five seconds before turning right instead of left.
Frankly, I blame the internet, and the random "You are here" arrows they put on the maps on streetmap.co.uk. The internet's made me lazy, stupid and sweary. I've lost count of the times I've printed out a streetmap map, headed straight for the arrow and got hopelessly lost, stamping around backstreets inventing fantastic new swearwords to entertain the locals. Twice, that's how many. And one of them in my own home town.
I currently have no idea where I am now.
I used to have the best sense of direction ever. I could find my way anywhere - even at night - just by looking at the sky, recognising a landmark and marching off in the right direction.
It was uncanny - the merest look at the landscape around me, and I could tell, down to the nearest square metre, exactly where I was, where I was going, and how many minutes it was until the next public house. Who needs a map and compass, when you've got a pigeon's homing gland grafted onto the back of your head?
Plonk me down in the middle of the country in the middle of the night - and good God, both my parents and my Scout troop did just that with a disturbing regularity - and I would be home, grinning like a smug bastard just as they stepped out of the car.
These days, I get lost in my own bathroom, and if actually told to "Get Lost", the chances are I will.
What the bloody hell's happened there, then? I've gone from Indian tracker to bloke-holding-map-upside-down-and-getting-rubbish-directions-from-equally-lost-traffic-wardens in the space of a few short years.
It's not as if I took a knock on the head and all my l33t mapping skills disappeared overnight, because I can still read a map, even if I have to refer to it every five seconds before turning right instead of left.
Frankly, I blame the internet, and the random "You are here" arrows they put on the maps on streetmap.co.uk. The internet's made me lazy, stupid and sweary. I've lost count of the times I've printed out a streetmap map, headed straight for the arrow and got hopelessly lost, stamping around backstreets inventing fantastic new swearwords to entertain the locals. Twice, that's how many. And one of them in my own home town.
I currently have no idea where I am now.
Friday, December 16, 2005
Outhouse o' Doom
Outhouse o' Doom
We lived in a progressive London home in the arse end of the 1960s – we had an inside toilet, the heating was powered by genuine coal and we possessed a copy of Rolf Harris's "Two Little Boys" on 7" vinyl. However, we still had the old outside lav, next to the coal hole and the wrought iron garden swing, constructed solely to kill unsuspecting children. The outside toilet could be pressed into service in an emergency, such as my brother flushing an entire roll of paper down the upstairs bog and flooding the bathroom, again. It smelled, I remember, of Jeyes Fluid.
One day, and as the six-year-old member of the family, I was not privy to the discussion, it was decided that the privy was to be pressed into other uses. Naturally, I found out the hard way.
Well, these things have a habit of happening. You're running up and down the back alley, climbing up Janine Bailey's tree (Short off-topic aside: Mmmmm.... Janine Bailey.....) and all of a sudden you're caught short with a terrifying desire to cut off a log. Say goodbye to breakfast. Snip off a length. Done, indeed, a poo.
I ran, all the way from the Bailey's garden four doors up the road, through the back gate, up the garden, past the huge galvanised iron swing (named, I completely made up just now "Bowfell's Deathtrap"), and threw open the door of the outside lav, muscles already relaxing for the inevitable.
I was faced, somewhat inexplicably, by a lawnmower, a rusty bicycle which had once been part of a tank and a phalanx of garden tools. We no longer had an outside lav. Instead, we had a make-shift brick-built shed. A garden shed with its own plumbing, hidden somewhere behind a hoe, a shovel and a garden fork.
AAARGH!
I dashed into the house, intending to sprint upstairs to our newly-installed inside bathroom. I only got as far as the kitchen, where my mother was cooking rock cakes. They never actually started as rock cakes, but, you know...
Done a poo.
I was wearing shorts, and a failed attempt to scoop up the mess as it plopped onto the floor only made things worse.
AAARGH!
That was my mother, who had a point, truth be told.
AAARGH!
That was me, realising I had been rumbled, and knowing that I could never ask to lick out the bowl ever again*.
AAARGH!
That was the lovely Miss Bailey running in to find out where I'd gone, only to slip in something nasty.
She's a doctor now, via a spell as Asia-Pacific Trampolining Champion. I know: "Here's what you could have had". All wrecked by bottom misbehaviour.
AARGH!
That's me, now.
* The correct answer being, of course, "Pull the chain like everybody else does."
We lived in a progressive London home in the arse end of the 1960s – we had an inside toilet, the heating was powered by genuine coal and we possessed a copy of Rolf Harris's "Two Little Boys" on 7" vinyl. However, we still had the old outside lav, next to the coal hole and the wrought iron garden swing, constructed solely to kill unsuspecting children. The outside toilet could be pressed into service in an emergency, such as my brother flushing an entire roll of paper down the upstairs bog and flooding the bathroom, again. It smelled, I remember, of Jeyes Fluid.
One day, and as the six-year-old member of the family, I was not privy to the discussion, it was decided that the privy was to be pressed into other uses. Naturally, I found out the hard way.
Well, these things have a habit of happening. You're running up and down the back alley, climbing up Janine Bailey's tree (Short off-topic aside: Mmmmm.... Janine Bailey.....) and all of a sudden you're caught short with a terrifying desire to cut off a log. Say goodbye to breakfast. Snip off a length. Done, indeed, a poo.
I ran, all the way from the Bailey's garden four doors up the road, through the back gate, up the garden, past the huge galvanised iron swing (named, I completely made up just now "Bowfell's Deathtrap"), and threw open the door of the outside lav, muscles already relaxing for the inevitable.
I was faced, somewhat inexplicably, by a lawnmower, a rusty bicycle which had once been part of a tank and a phalanx of garden tools. We no longer had an outside lav. Instead, we had a make-shift brick-built shed. A garden shed with its own plumbing, hidden somewhere behind a hoe, a shovel and a garden fork.
AAARGH!
I dashed into the house, intending to sprint upstairs to our newly-installed inside bathroom. I only got as far as the kitchen, where my mother was cooking rock cakes. They never actually started as rock cakes, but, you know...
Done a poo.
I was wearing shorts, and a failed attempt to scoop up the mess as it plopped onto the floor only made things worse.
AAARGH!
That was my mother, who had a point, truth be told.
AAARGH!
That was me, realising I had been rumbled, and knowing that I could never ask to lick out the bowl ever again*.
AAARGH!
That was the lovely Miss Bailey running in to find out where I'd gone, only to slip in something nasty.
She's a doctor now, via a spell as Asia-Pacific Trampolining Champion. I know: "Here's what you could have had". All wrecked by bottom misbehaviour.
AARGH!
That's me, now.
* The correct answer being, of course, "Pull the chain like everybody else does."
Thursday, December 15, 2005
Thursday vote-o
Thursday vote-o: Two for the price of one
You lucky, lucky people. Not only is there a regular vote-o, but you also get a chance to stuff somebody else's ballot box and it only costs you 25p a go.
Vote the first: Vote-me-up for tomorrow's Scary story! As this site is currently running on auto-pilot, the vote is restricted only to stories I've actually written and have ready-to-go in Blogger. It's technical, I'm lazy, and you get what you're given.
* The Operator: "As the bull rammed itself home for the final time and consciousness faded into welcoming darkness, John Craven found himself yearning for the simple life back in the Newsround studio. You didn't get this kind of reaming as a newsreader. Not on a Sunday, anyway."
* Dazed and Confused: "In the light of new information from laboratories in the Far East, the Department of Health was forced to issue a new public health warning. 'You can only contract Avian Flu from bumming chickens. Do not bum chickens'"
* Potman: "As Dick Cheney came to, he realised with no little horror that his worst nightmare had indeed come true. The head-dress. The backless trousers. The thumping bass. He was on tour with The Village People. Again. The shotgun-wielding midget smiled and winked. Things would be getting much, much worse before they got better."
* Outhouse o' Doom: "In his excitement, Stephen clicked the 'Buy it Now!' button on Ebay, and any day now, thirty-seven pairs of Cherie Blair's used panties and a dirty letter on Downing Street notepaper would be coming through his letterbox. Suitably aroused, he slid Jerry Springer: The Opera into the DVD player again, and praised the Lord for the sin of lust."
Vote the second and a message from Mrs Duck: "My favourite cousin Ian is in the final of Strictly Come Dancing this Saturday night. Please vote for him, or Scary won't get anything for Christmas. I might add that if Ian and Zoe don't win, the Scaryducklings will cry, and it'll be all your fault. So, no pressure or anything."
The phone number is 0901 121 4012, with half of the 25p call charge going to Children in Need. Do it! Do it NOW! I've already got to see a former Boyzone in panto this Christmas, so don't make my life any worse than it already is.
Vote-me-do, and Vote-Ian-me-do!
You lucky, lucky people. Not only is there a regular vote-o, but you also get a chance to stuff somebody else's ballot box and it only costs you 25p a go.
Vote the first: Vote-me-up for tomorrow's Scary story! As this site is currently running on auto-pilot, the vote is restricted only to stories I've actually written and have ready-to-go in Blogger. It's technical, I'm lazy, and you get what you're given.
* The Operator: "As the bull rammed itself home for the final time and consciousness faded into welcoming darkness, John Craven found himself yearning for the simple life back in the Newsround studio. You didn't get this kind of reaming as a newsreader. Not on a Sunday, anyway."
* Dazed and Confused: "In the light of new information from laboratories in the Far East, the Department of Health was forced to issue a new public health warning. 'You can only contract Avian Flu from bumming chickens. Do not bum chickens'"
* Potman: "As Dick Cheney came to, he realised with no little horror that his worst nightmare had indeed come true. The head-dress. The backless trousers. The thumping bass. He was on tour with The Village People. Again. The shotgun-wielding midget smiled and winked. Things would be getting much, much worse before they got better."
* Outhouse o' Doom: "In his excitement, Stephen clicked the 'Buy it Now!' button on Ebay, and any day now, thirty-seven pairs of Cherie Blair's used panties and a dirty letter on Downing Street notepaper would be coming through his letterbox. Suitably aroused, he slid Jerry Springer: The Opera into the DVD player again, and praised the Lord for the sin of lust."
Vote the second and a message from Mrs Duck: "My favourite cousin Ian is in the final of Strictly Come Dancing this Saturday night. Please vote for him, or Scary won't get anything for Christmas. I might add that if Ian and Zoe don't win, the Scaryducklings will cry, and it'll be all your fault. So, no pressure or anything."
The phone number is 0901 121 4012, with half of the 25p call charge going to Children in Need. Do it! Do it NOW! I've already got to see a former Boyzone in panto this Christmas, so don't make my life any worse than it already is.
Vote-me-do, and Vote-Ian-me-do!
Wednesday, December 14, 2005
Rugger Buggers
Rugger Buggers
If it were not for Rugger Buggers, the British ale brewing industry would have died out years ago. In recognition of this, there are certain rules and standards which should be observed by both sides of the arrangement.
In short, this boils down to one statement of fact that even the most brain-damaged of lock forwards can remember: no poncy drinks, you great poove.
As a barman of a certain vintage, I fully understand The Way of the Drunken Rugger Bugger, and, after a strenuous training course over the period of ten minutes, learned that only the following drinks – taken from an approved list - should be served to rugby players: REAL ale (preferably with dead things to add to the taste/alcohol retaining properties), Guinness, sweet sherry.
Any drink involving “lager”, “Babycham”, or is served in quantities of less than a pint are strictly verboten, unless consumed as chasers. Snakebite, the drink of cunts, students and student cunts is punishable by death.
The only acceptable bar request by a Rugger Bugger is: "Fifteen pints of your strongest, barman!", to which a companion must immediately chip in with the rejoinder "Excellent! I'll have fifteen pints as well!"
Within an hour, the singing will start, and a rolled up newspaper will be inserted up the scrum half's bumhole and set of fire because he ordered snakebite.
Then, like a tornado, the entire rugby team will depart, leaving the pub a mass of empty glasses and abandoned kit, with only the faintest of echoes of "I'm a stupid dicky-di-dildo" coming from the pub down the road, where the entire performance is repeated.
At closing time, you may find the scrum half, face down in the gents, his bottom like Hiroshima the Day After, all because he ordered snakebite.
Rugby players: Say no to snakebite.
If it were not for Rugger Buggers, the British ale brewing industry would have died out years ago. In recognition of this, there are certain rules and standards which should be observed by both sides of the arrangement.
In short, this boils down to one statement of fact that even the most brain-damaged of lock forwards can remember: no poncy drinks, you great poove.
As a barman of a certain vintage, I fully understand The Way of the Drunken Rugger Bugger, and, after a strenuous training course over the period of ten minutes, learned that only the following drinks – taken from an approved list - should be served to rugby players: REAL ale (preferably with dead things to add to the taste/alcohol retaining properties), Guinness, sweet sherry.
Any drink involving “lager”, “Babycham”, or is served in quantities of less than a pint are strictly verboten, unless consumed as chasers. Snakebite, the drink of cunts, students and student cunts is punishable by death.
The only acceptable bar request by a Rugger Bugger is: "Fifteen pints of your strongest, barman!", to which a companion must immediately chip in with the rejoinder "Excellent! I'll have fifteen pints as well!"
Within an hour, the singing will start, and a rolled up newspaper will be inserted up the scrum half's bumhole and set of fire because he ordered snakebite.
Then, like a tornado, the entire rugby team will depart, leaving the pub a mass of empty glasses and abandoned kit, with only the faintest of echoes of "I'm a stupid dicky-di-dildo" coming from the pub down the road, where the entire performance is repeated.
At closing time, you may find the scrum half, face down in the gents, his bottom like Hiroshima the Day After, all because he ordered snakebite.
Rugby players: Say no to snakebite.
Tuesday, December 13, 2005
Letterbocks
Letterbocks
I had a letter in Viz once. This is it:
Dear Viz
What a load of rubbish these "old wives tales" are.
Yesterday, whilst admiring a particularly beautiful sunset, I heard an old wife saying "red sky at night, shepherd's delight". The next morning, her husband - who happens to be a shepherd - was tragically killed in a bizarre spacehopper accident.
Hardly reason to be delighted, I'm sure you'll agree.
Dan Prick, Reading
From that comedic high-point, it's been downhill all the way. So, from this tenuous link, do you have any Viz-style top tips to share?
"Courting couples! Save money on contraception by simply turning your Rubber Johnny inside out after you've used it."
I had a letter in Viz once. This is it:
Dear Viz
What a load of rubbish these "old wives tales" are.
Yesterday, whilst admiring a particularly beautiful sunset, I heard an old wife saying "red sky at night, shepherd's delight". The next morning, her husband - who happens to be a shepherd - was tragically killed in a bizarre spacehopper accident.
Hardly reason to be delighted, I'm sure you'll agree.
Dan Prick, Reading
From that comedic high-point, it's been downhill all the way. So, from this tenuous link, do you have any Viz-style top tips to share?
"Courting couples! Save money on contraception by simply turning your Rubber Johnny inside out after you've used it."
Monday, December 12, 2005
When Done A Poo goes bad
When Done A Poo goes bad
Disaster. A bit of a runny bot yesterday evening following a Mexican meal that went horribly, horribly wrong. Chilli? Not a bit of it – my arse was red hot, as are my punning abilities, it would seem. An afternoon spent catching up with some reading on the toilet, and I assumed, foolishly, that the worst was over.
Then, me charming wife asks me to rearrange some furniture so her chair's no longer in an annoying draught coming straight off the English Channel, over Chesil Beach, right down the chimney and straight up her left trouser leg. Of course, the inevitable happens as I'm humping the sofa. No, not that - the familiar warm, damp feeling as you follow through in your kecks.
For a few moments, my head spinning with delirium, I wasn't 100 per cent certain what had happened, so I absent-mindedly rubbed the gusset into my arse-crack for a feel, and just spread it about more. It's then that I realised that any attempt to flee, or to make the slightest movement will result in the dark, dark secret revealed.
"What's that smell?" she finally said, and I blamed it on the dog.
Ah, love's true course finds its way again.
Damn you Mexicans!
Filthy Lucre
With Christmas just around the corner, and my bottom resembling the aftermath of an oil depot fire, why not reward your favourite and hardest-working blogger (who has suffered geiune gonad-rending agony for his art this year) with something from his Amazon Wish List?
Ah go on, be your best friend. And you're right, I have absolutely no shame.
Disaster. A bit of a runny bot yesterday evening following a Mexican meal that went horribly, horribly wrong. Chilli? Not a bit of it – my arse was red hot, as are my punning abilities, it would seem. An afternoon spent catching up with some reading on the toilet, and I assumed, foolishly, that the worst was over.
Then, me charming wife asks me to rearrange some furniture so her chair's no longer in an annoying draught coming straight off the English Channel, over Chesil Beach, right down the chimney and straight up her left trouser leg. Of course, the inevitable happens as I'm humping the sofa. No, not that - the familiar warm, damp feeling as you follow through in your kecks.
For a few moments, my head spinning with delirium, I wasn't 100 per cent certain what had happened, so I absent-mindedly rubbed the gusset into my arse-crack for a feel, and just spread it about more. It's then that I realised that any attempt to flee, or to make the slightest movement will result in the dark, dark secret revealed.
"What's that smell?" she finally said, and I blamed it on the dog.
Ah, love's true course finds its way again.
Damn you Mexicans!
Filthy Lucre
With Christmas just around the corner, and my bottom resembling the aftermath of an oil depot fire, why not reward your favourite and hardest-working blogger (who has suffered geiune gonad-rending agony for his art this year) with something from his Amazon Wish List?
Ah go on, be your best friend. And you're right, I have absolutely no shame.
Sunday, December 11, 2005
Favourite Things - Punked
The Worthless Pursuit of Favourite Things - Punked
"Punked" is a three hour Sunday evening music show playing nothing but old-school punk - plus one or two acts which are about as punk as my granny *cough* XTC *cough* - for old duffers like me to embarrass themselves in from of their kids.
In a commercial radio industry that's far too scared to play anything but current chart hits and Phil Collins oldies, it's a refreshing change from my local station - Wessex FM and the rest of the Local Radio Company, even if there's only so many punk classics you can play week-in, week-out.
Sunday, 7pm-10pm. Listen-o in stunning 24bits/sec hi-fidelity!
I done a request. They might even play it.
Also: As pointed out in the comments, rigging the Wessex FM online Chistmas poll so that The Pogues win would be A Bad Thing. I urge you not to mock the democratic process in such a way. Well, go on then...
"Punked" is a three hour Sunday evening music show playing nothing but old-school punk - plus one or two acts which are about as punk as my granny *cough* XTC *cough* - for old duffers like me to embarrass themselves in from of their kids.
In a commercial radio industry that's far too scared to play anything but current chart hits and Phil Collins oldies, it's a refreshing change from my local station - Wessex FM and the rest of the Local Radio Company, even if there's only so many punk classics you can play week-in, week-out.
Sunday, 7pm-10pm. Listen-o in stunning 24bits/sec hi-fidelity!
I done a request. They might even play it.
Also: As pointed out in the comments, rigging the Wessex FM online Chistmas poll so that The Pogues win would be A Bad Thing. I urge you not to mock the democratic process in such a way. Well, go on then...
Friday, December 09, 2005
Chimney o' Doom
Chimney o' Doom
I hate DIY.
No. I hate DIY with a passion.
I will take pride in the end result, but it is the process of actually arriving there I cannot stand.
The fact is this: inanimate objects, especially pieces of wood, screws, fixings, saws and blunt instruments hate me with a passion and will do anything in their power to inflict injury and humiliation on my person. DIY, then, is a one-way ticket to woe, and boy, does it make me angry.
I cannot do any DIY without raging like a lunatic at the work I'm doing. The work responds in kind by making the job as difficult as possible; and thus the vicious circle continues until I am in my own little pit of hell, surrounded by discarded tools and smashed pieces of wood.
Of course, doing any work where there are spectators will just make things worse. The last thing I want to hear when the pieces don't quite fit together is a helpful "Have you remembered to cut out the little notch?"
"Yessssssssssssssss...." I will reply, sounding like a gas leak.
Last week, for this is recent history, Mrs Duck asked me to block the old fireplace in the dining room to stop soot, weather and dead things from falling down and making a mess of our lovely kitchen-diner.
It looked so easy. All I had to do was remove the old, ill-fitting block, measure up and fit a new one. Twenty minutes' work, tops.
Three hours later...
Everybody else decided to "leave Mr Grumpy at it" and went shopping.
Actually sitting in the fireplace, halfway up the chimney, shouting and swearing at the fact my carefully crafted piece of work didn't quite fit the not-quite square hole. Worse, it had gone up the chimney, got wedged, and was steadfastly refusing to come out again and get the sandpapering of its life.
Revenge! That's the thing!
"Come out you bas-TAAAAARD!"
I hammered at it with the first thing that came to hand. A wild swing with a rubber mallet, connecting with something unexpectedly solid.
It bounced back and hit me in the head. If there was a sound effect for this particular set of actions, it would have gone "BAAAAAARRRRN....SPANGGGGG!"
It hurt. It hurt a lot.
"FUCKING HEEEEEELLLLLL!" I screamed, and hit out at my work again, much, much harder.
That did the trick, and my carefully mutilated piece of plywood came unstuck and dropped neatly onto my head, pointy bit first.
I didn't get a chance to swear and curse at this particular piece of mixed fortune, for there were other forces at work. Dark, dark forces.
My second manly blow of the mallet had somehow dislodged something further up the chimney, and gravity was about to do its evil evil work.
I drew breath to scream and shout in pain and annoyance, when it hit me. About half a ton of sixty-year-old soot landed on my head.
Half a ton of soot, birds' nest, sand, dead things, living things, bits of chimney, and more soot. My world went black.
Not far away, there is a click and a muffled thump, as Mrs Duck returned from the shops with her parents.
"Are you finished yet?" she called from the hall.
"Nearly..."
"Let's have a look, and then you can make a nice cup of oh..."
Doom.
I hate DIY.
I hate DIY.
No. I hate DIY with a passion.
I will take pride in the end result, but it is the process of actually arriving there I cannot stand.
The fact is this: inanimate objects, especially pieces of wood, screws, fixings, saws and blunt instruments hate me with a passion and will do anything in their power to inflict injury and humiliation on my person. DIY, then, is a one-way ticket to woe, and boy, does it make me angry.
I cannot do any DIY without raging like a lunatic at the work I'm doing. The work responds in kind by making the job as difficult as possible; and thus the vicious circle continues until I am in my own little pit of hell, surrounded by discarded tools and smashed pieces of wood.
Of course, doing any work where there are spectators will just make things worse. The last thing I want to hear when the pieces don't quite fit together is a helpful "Have you remembered to cut out the little notch?"
"Yessssssssssssssss...." I will reply, sounding like a gas leak.
Last week, for this is recent history, Mrs Duck asked me to block the old fireplace in the dining room to stop soot, weather and dead things from falling down and making a mess of our lovely kitchen-diner.
This story's inevitable conclusion
It looked so easy. All I had to do was remove the old, ill-fitting block, measure up and fit a new one. Twenty minutes' work, tops.
Three hours later...
Everybody else decided to "leave Mr Grumpy at it" and went shopping.
Actually sitting in the fireplace, halfway up the chimney, shouting and swearing at the fact my carefully crafted piece of work didn't quite fit the not-quite square hole. Worse, it had gone up the chimney, got wedged, and was steadfastly refusing to come out again and get the sandpapering of its life.
Revenge! That's the thing!
"Come out you bas-TAAAAARD!"
I hammered at it with the first thing that came to hand. A wild swing with a rubber mallet, connecting with something unexpectedly solid.
It bounced back and hit me in the head. If there was a sound effect for this particular set of actions, it would have gone "BAAAAAARRRRN....SPANGGGGG!"
It hurt. It hurt a lot.
"FUCKING HEEEEEELLLLLL!" I screamed, and hit out at my work again, much, much harder.
That did the trick, and my carefully mutilated piece of plywood came unstuck and dropped neatly onto my head, pointy bit first.
I didn't get a chance to swear and curse at this particular piece of mixed fortune, for there were other forces at work. Dark, dark forces.
My second manly blow of the mallet had somehow dislodged something further up the chimney, and gravity was about to do its evil evil work.
I drew breath to scream and shout in pain and annoyance, when it hit me. About half a ton of sixty-year-old soot landed on my head.
Half a ton of soot, birds' nest, sand, dead things, living things, bits of chimney, and more soot. My world went black.
Not far away, there is a click and a muffled thump, as Mrs Duck returned from the shops with her parents.
"Are you finished yet?" she called from the hall.
"Nearly..."
"Let's have a look, and then you can make a nice cup of oh..."
Doom.
I hate DIY.
Thursday, December 08, 2005
The Thursday Vote-o gone Mad, on Acid
The Thursday Vote-o gone Mad, on Acid
Another Thursday swings round like a big swingy thing, with nothing to show for it but a nose-bleed and a craving for coffee so strong you can stand a spoon in it. To illustrate the level of boredom that my week has descended to (the highlight being a huge gash on my leg falling off a ladder whilst hanging our chav-tastic Christmas lights), I bring you no less than eight Scary Stories for your voting pleasure:
Standard disclaimer, because some of you still don't get it: The quotes have absolutely nothing to do with the actual story. They are, because of the manky humour gland gear-changes involved, the hardest thing to write on the whole site.
* The Operator: It was only months later that Professor Hawking realised what he had witnessed was, in fact, the Duke of Edinburgh as viewed from up Her Majesty's bottom. It was all the proof he needed to confirm his "Brown Universe" theory.
* Dazed and Confused: Gordon loved being Chancellor of the Exchequer, because he could get his revenge on a hateful society whenever he felt like it. For example, nobody ever asked him questions about the petty cash tin, so the three million pounds he had pissed up the wall on the Crazy Frog Christmas single went completely unnoticed.
* Potman: "I'm sorry Miss Widdecombe," the official with the clipboard said, sounding almost, but not quite sincere in his business suit topped with a builder's hard hat, "But the form does say we're not to leave the premises until you get your anal fisting. It's all here in writing, if you care to look. Don't blame me. It's regulations."
* Outhouse: He had read somewhere that you could make it grow by hanging heavy weights from the end. All well and good, but difficult to hide at three o'clock on a Saturday afternoon when you're leading the line for Manchester United.
* Now, that's Magic!: As the cellar door slammed shut behind him, he knew full well he was trapped with a monster. A creature of unspeakable evil, the destroyer of worlds, the eater of souls. In short: Ainsley Harriot.
* Chimney o' Doom: Professor Hillingdon-Smythe spent months observing his subjects. Lying low, keeping out of trouble, he could observe their every move, every little nuance that the group made. He made copious notes on their behaviour, language patterns and mating rituals, hoping that one day, soon, we might understand what it is to be a "Chav".
* Dibs: It was the most amazing scam. Frank had managed to get hold of two thousand gallons of baby oil, a paddling pool and the services of some of television's most nubile female celebrities, just by using the words "I'm making a documentary for Channel Four". But now a clingfilm-wrapped Allsopp was asking difficult questions, and his brother still hadn't turned up with the camera.
* Pickle: It was a revelation that would rock the Christian church to its very core. There had been no five loaves and two fish. But why, thought Cardinal M'Buyo, why entrust the secret of The Lord's trip to the Galilee Happy Eater to Dan Brown, of all people?
I'm not going anywhere today, so I'll just stand here and urge you to vote, whilst simultaneously (and at the same time) invoking a mental image of Condi Rice getting it on back-door style with an only partially-aroused David Blunkett. It's the least I can do, and I will only stop if you pay me.
Update-o!: My referrer logs cannot lie. Which of you bastards googled this? As a gentleman and a loving husband, I'm not telling. Not for any money.
Another Thursday swings round like a big swingy thing, with nothing to show for it but a nose-bleed and a craving for coffee so strong you can stand a spoon in it. To illustrate the level of boredom that my week has descended to (the highlight being a huge gash on my leg falling off a ladder whilst hanging our chav-tastic Christmas lights), I bring you no less than eight Scary Stories for your voting pleasure:
Standard disclaimer, because some of you still don't get it: The quotes have absolutely nothing to do with the actual story. They are, because of the manky humour gland gear-changes involved, the hardest thing to write on the whole site.
* The Operator: It was only months later that Professor Hawking realised what he had witnessed was, in fact, the Duke of Edinburgh as viewed from up Her Majesty's bottom. It was all the proof he needed to confirm his "Brown Universe" theory.
* Dazed and Confused: Gordon loved being Chancellor of the Exchequer, because he could get his revenge on a hateful society whenever he felt like it. For example, nobody ever asked him questions about the petty cash tin, so the three million pounds he had pissed up the wall on the Crazy Frog Christmas single went completely unnoticed.
* Potman: "I'm sorry Miss Widdecombe," the official with the clipboard said, sounding almost, but not quite sincere in his business suit topped with a builder's hard hat, "But the form does say we're not to leave the premises until you get your anal fisting. It's all here in writing, if you care to look. Don't blame me. It's regulations."
* Outhouse: He had read somewhere that you could make it grow by hanging heavy weights from the end. All well and good, but difficult to hide at three o'clock on a Saturday afternoon when you're leading the line for Manchester United.
* Now, that's Magic!: As the cellar door slammed shut behind him, he knew full well he was trapped with a monster. A creature of unspeakable evil, the destroyer of worlds, the eater of souls. In short: Ainsley Harriot.
* Chimney o' Doom: Professor Hillingdon-Smythe spent months observing his subjects. Lying low, keeping out of trouble, he could observe their every move, every little nuance that the group made. He made copious notes on their behaviour, language patterns and mating rituals, hoping that one day, soon, we might understand what it is to be a "Chav".
* Dibs: It was the most amazing scam. Frank had managed to get hold of two thousand gallons of baby oil, a paddling pool and the services of some of television's most nubile female celebrities, just by using the words "I'm making a documentary for Channel Four". But now a clingfilm-wrapped Allsopp was asking difficult questions, and his brother still hadn't turned up with the camera.
* Pickle: It was a revelation that would rock the Christian church to its very core. There had been no five loaves and two fish. But why, thought Cardinal M'Buyo, why entrust the secret of The Lord's trip to the Galilee Happy Eater to Dan Brown, of all people?
I'm not going anywhere today, so I'll just stand here and urge you to vote, whilst simultaneously (and at the same time) invoking a mental image of Condi Rice getting it on back-door style with an only partially-aroused David Blunkett. It's the least I can do, and I will only stop if you pay me.
Update-o!: My referrer logs cannot lie. Which of you bastards googled this? As a gentleman and a loving husband, I'm not telling. Not for any money.
Wednesday, December 07, 2005
Shed/Castle Interface
Shed/Castle Interface
A man's shed is his castle. My castle, however, is full to bursting with garden furniture. This is wrong.
I cannot move for green garden chairs and a large, grey plastic table. My Black and Decker Generic Workmate is wedged behind a decorative umbrella, which led to an important bit of sawing needed to be done using the old standby: "putting my foot on it".
You may observe that these items are essentially feminine in nature, women's tat invading my sacred manly space, reserved entirely for male-orientated tat.
Manly stuff I keep in my shed:
* A golf bag containing a 3-Wood and a putter
* Doctor Teeth, my chainsaw
* A pair of ancient steel-capped boots
* Enough chenicals to strip the vegetation from half a third world country, and to blow up the other half
Garden furniture is right up there with air freshener in the top ten of useless crap that women buy. Garden furniture should only be used by men if forced to at gunpoint, or in the direst of emergencies. These include use as an emergency living room suite should your usual furniture be stolen or repossessed; or if more than three people attend a barbecue and all the kitchen chairs are taken. In both these cases, the furniture should be immediately burnt after use, to prevent contamination.
Lounging in the garden making small talk with the wife's family is certainly interdit.
Notable exceptions: Hammocks, which like frenzied masturbation, should only be attempted out-of-doors by the supremely skilled.
Woe of the Day
I have today realised how old I am. And it is this: Seven months older than the leader of the Conservative Party. I never thought I'd see the day, but, woe, it has finally arrived.
Poor Scaryduck.
A man's shed is his castle. My castle, however, is full to bursting with garden furniture. This is wrong.
I cannot move for green garden chairs and a large, grey plastic table. My Black and Decker Generic Workmate is wedged behind a decorative umbrella, which led to an important bit of sawing needed to be done using the old standby: "putting my foot on it".
You may observe that these items are essentially feminine in nature, women's tat invading my sacred manly space, reserved entirely for male-orientated tat.
Manly stuff I keep in my shed:
* A golf bag containing a 3-Wood and a putter
* Doctor Teeth, my chainsaw
* A pair of ancient steel-capped boots
* Enough chenicals to strip the vegetation from half a third world country, and to blow up the other half
Garden furniture is right up there with air freshener in the top ten of useless crap that women buy. Garden furniture should only be used by men if forced to at gunpoint, or in the direst of emergencies. These include use as an emergency living room suite should your usual furniture be stolen or repossessed; or if more than three people attend a barbecue and all the kitchen chairs are taken. In both these cases, the furniture should be immediately burnt after use, to prevent contamination.
Lounging in the garden making small talk with the wife's family is certainly interdit.
Notable exceptions: Hammocks, which like frenzied masturbation, should only be attempted out-of-doors by the supremely skilled.
Woe of the Day
I have today realised how old I am. And it is this: Seven months older than the leader of the Conservative Party. I never thought I'd see the day, but, woe, it has finally arrived.
Poor Scaryduck.
Tuesday, December 06, 2005
Cuss you Bad, Swear me Good
Real Life Interface, Part II
GW sends our first entry in our Pointless-Letters-to-the-Press competition, with this missive to the Watford Observer. The standard is set - mirth, woe, and references to Global Warming. Quality.
Need I remind you: genuine prizes for the best letters published in local or national papers. Write-o!
Cuss you Bad, Swear me Good
Referrer logs are an excellent thing, allowing website owners to discover how people found your site, and guess at the level of disappointment when they discover the lack of colostomy bag sex contained within.
A recent disappointed visitor arrived from google on the search term “worst swear word poll”. I’ve never run a worst swear word poll, and good God, I’m going to right that wrong, here and now.
Your nominations, then, for the world’s top profanity, if you please (consider the plain vanilla, and frankly losing their shock value, “fuck” and “cunt” already nominated). The more imaginative, the better.
Degree of difficulty: Use of reference materials optional.
“Futtocks!”
GW sends our first entry in our Pointless-Letters-to-the-Press competition, with this missive to the Watford Observer. The standard is set - mirth, woe, and references to Global Warming. Quality.
Click to embiggen
Need I remind you: genuine prizes for the best letters published in local or national papers. Write-o!
Cuss you Bad, Swear me Good
Referrer logs are an excellent thing, allowing website owners to discover how people found your site, and guess at the level of disappointment when they discover the lack of colostomy bag sex contained within.
A recent disappointed visitor arrived from google on the search term “worst swear word poll”. I’ve never run a worst swear word poll, and good God, I’m going to right that wrong, here and now.
Your nominations, then, for the world’s top profanity, if you please (consider the plain vanilla, and frankly losing their shock value, “fuck” and “cunt” already nominated). The more imaginative, the better.
Degree of difficulty: Use of reference materials
optional.“Futtocks!”
Monday, December 05, 2005
Lift
Lift
To BBC Television Centre for an editorial meeting, where I was to spend far too much time stuck in a lift.
It was terrible. For long, long minutes, we all stood there trying not to broach the inevitable, but before long I was the one who broke the silence.
"I'm afraid we're going to have to eat someone", all the while staring at the weedy-looking bloke at the back of the elevator car. Survival of the fittest, and all that.
"Let's not be too hasty about this," he squeaked, "we've only been here a few minutes."
Yeah, right. Minutes become hours, become weeks. Best to strike now while the supplies are fresh.
"As I said, I'm afraid we're going to have to eat someone."
"But I've got sandwiches!" he wailed, the desperation heavy on his voice, his mouth running dry with fear, "I've just been to 'Pret'."
My trapped colleagues closed in on the wretch, saliva already dripping from their mouths in the expectation of the hot, raw flesh between their teeth, and the sating blood running down their throats. My Swiss Army keyring fell into my hand, ready to deliver the coup de grace.
And the lift shuddered back into life, the doors opening on the second floor.
A new passenger.
He who goes by the name 'Wogan'.
"I'm afraid we're going to have to eat someone."
To BBC Television Centre for an editorial meeting, where I was to spend far too much time stuck in a lift.
It was terrible. For long, long minutes, we all stood there trying not to broach the inevitable, but before long I was the one who broke the silence.
"I'm afraid we're going to have to eat someone", all the while staring at the weedy-looking bloke at the back of the elevator car. Survival of the fittest, and all that.
"Let's not be too hasty about this," he squeaked, "we've only been here a few minutes."
Yeah, right. Minutes become hours, become weeks. Best to strike now while the supplies are fresh.
"As I said, I'm afraid we're going to have to eat someone."
"But I've got sandwiches!" he wailed, the desperation heavy on his voice, his mouth running dry with fear, "I've just been to 'Pret'."
My trapped colleagues closed in on the wretch, saliva already dripping from their mouths in the expectation of the hot, raw flesh between their teeth, and the sating blood running down their throats. My Swiss Army keyring fell into my hand, ready to deliver the coup de grace.
And the lift shuddered back into life, the doors opening on the second floor.
A new passenger.
He who goes by the name 'Wogan'.
"I'm afraid we're going to have to eat someone."
Friday, December 02, 2005
Pole-Dancing
Pole-dancing
Regular readers will already know that much of my youth was spent as a member of several quasi-military youth groups, preparing myself for a life of crushing the working classes under the jackboot of military-industrial oppression. Or to you, the Scouts and the Air Cadets.
Both of these fine institutions had their headquarters in run-down local halls, which went unused from one-day to the next, except on one evening a week, when they were filled with a handful of uniformed idiots, who sat there, freezing, learning how to tie a knot or find their way about on a map. In other words, the whole thing needed spicing up a bit, and tying the new boy up with his own string had lost its charm the day night we went home forgetting about little Pauly in the storeroom.
In the Scouts, we had found out about a thing called round-the-pole flying, which combined the saddest elements of model-making with all the insanity that comes with playing with 240 volts of mains electricity and the added joys of projectile motion.
Technical bit: What you had was this: a burning desire to build and fly model aircraft, but limited space to launch the thing into the big blue. Like, say, a freezing cold Scout hut. So, you went out to a specialist shop and bought a five foot high pole, held in the vertical by a heavy base, with a ball race type-of-thing at the top. You then tethered your plane to the ball race at the top of pole by a long length of copper wire, which is then connected to the plane's electric motor. Then, the whole affair is connected up to a transformer, a scalextric handset, and then the mains, and you watched as your balsa marvel flew round and round in circles on the end of its wire until the cows come home.
And to prove I'm not making this up - a picture of a bloke with no face and his simple friend finding the whole experience far too exciting.
All well and good for the easily pleased, or those under the watchful eye of a qualified Scout leader. However, after the first thirty seconds, we found that the whole concept needed a bit of jazzing up. After all, it soon became apparent that model-making skill was not required in the slightest, and even a housebrick could be made to fly with a powerful enough motor. And that bit older, that bit stupider, and with our Air Cadet leadership out bullshitting and spoon-bending somewhere, we were left to our own devices.
This would, as any student of these stories will be able to tell you, lead to only one thing: doom. Doom and woe. Two things, then.
We invented “stunt running”. With a plane zooming around the hall on a ten-to-fifteen foot diameter circle, a “volunteer” would be made to run a complete circuit of the pole without being hit by the plane or decapitated by the wire. Extra points were scored for touching the pole, jumping over, or ducking under the wire, multiple circuits and even running anti-clockwise to the aircraft’s clockwise, all the time risking something hideous in the way of high-velocity cheese-wire.
There were regular plane-up-the-arse moments as an ill-judged run went horribly wrong, often to the great hilarity of the spectators. The true classic was for the pilot to catch some poor bugger round the ankles, leaving him wrapped in wire and face down on the floor. This was made all the better if it was someone on an errand who had walked into the hall completely oblivious to the dangers of a wide-opened space surrounded by grinning idiots.
And still we wanted more. Rigging up a second ball-race, we added a second plane for twice the danger, and with a bit of a tweak, you could actually get two planes flying in opposite directions, which led to true carnage, and the death of my previously bullet-proof Spitfire.
So, we added spikes and razor blades to leading edges of wings, and cranked the transformer up to fifty volts and then the fun really started on the Run ‘O’ Doom. Shredded shins were seen as a badge of honour. You did, however, tend to lose marks of full uniform inspections.
“And this,” said Flt Lt Tipping, a genuine WWII Bomber Command veteran, “is where the lads fly their electric planes.”
“How very interesting”, replied Air Vice Marshall Maisner CB CBE AFC, veteran of the Free Polish Air Forces in WWII, and now senior officer in charge of everything, ever. “It’s good to see the youth of today so fascinated in flyi….”
BAAAAAARRRRN! – Thwumpppppph – AAAAAAAAAARGH!
Corporal Hackett would never walk again. Luckily, however, the blood stains came out.
We were told to stop.
Regular readers will already know that much of my youth was spent as a member of several quasi-military youth groups, preparing myself for a life of crushing the working classes under the jackboot of military-industrial oppression. Or to you, the Scouts and the Air Cadets.
Both of these fine institutions had their headquarters in run-down local halls, which went unused from one-day to the next, except on one evening a week, when they were filled with a handful of uniformed idiots, who sat there, freezing, learning how to tie a knot or find their way about on a map. In other words, the whole thing needed spicing up a bit, and tying the new boy up with his own string had lost its charm the day night we went home forgetting about little Pauly in the storeroom.
In the Scouts, we had found out about a thing called round-the-pole flying, which combined the saddest elements of model-making with all the insanity that comes with playing with 240 volts of mains electricity and the added joys of projectile motion.
Technical bit: What you had was this: a burning desire to build and fly model aircraft, but limited space to launch the thing into the big blue. Like, say, a freezing cold Scout hut. So, you went out to a specialist shop and bought a five foot high pole, held in the vertical by a heavy base, with a ball race type-of-thing at the top. You then tethered your plane to the ball race at the top of pole by a long length of copper wire, which is then connected to the plane's electric motor. Then, the whole affair is connected up to a transformer, a scalextric handset, and then the mains, and you watched as your balsa marvel flew round and round in circles on the end of its wire until the cows come home.
And to prove I'm not making this up - a picture of a bloke with no face and his simple friend finding the whole experience far too exciting.
"Wheeee! This is fun! What d'you think, No-Face?"
"Mmmf mmmmff! Mmmmmmfff!"
"Mmmf mmmmff! Mmmmmmfff!"
All well and good for the easily pleased, or those under the watchful eye of a qualified Scout leader. However, after the first thirty seconds, we found that the whole concept needed a bit of jazzing up. After all, it soon became apparent that model-making skill was not required in the slightest, and even a housebrick could be made to fly with a powerful enough motor. And that bit older, that bit stupider, and with our Air Cadet leadership out bullshitting and spoon-bending somewhere, we were left to our own devices.
This would, as any student of these stories will be able to tell you, lead to only one thing: doom. Doom and woe. Two things, then.
We invented “stunt running”. With a plane zooming around the hall on a ten-to-fifteen foot diameter circle, a “volunteer” would be made to run a complete circuit of the pole without being hit by the plane or decapitated by the wire. Extra points were scored for touching the pole, jumping over, or ducking under the wire, multiple circuits and even running anti-clockwise to the aircraft’s clockwise, all the time risking something hideous in the way of high-velocity cheese-wire.
There were regular plane-up-the-arse moments as an ill-judged run went horribly wrong, often to the great hilarity of the spectators. The true classic was for the pilot to catch some poor bugger round the ankles, leaving him wrapped in wire and face down on the floor. This was made all the better if it was someone on an errand who had walked into the hall completely oblivious to the dangers of a wide-opened space surrounded by grinning idiots.
And still we wanted more. Rigging up a second ball-race, we added a second plane for twice the danger, and with a bit of a tweak, you could actually get two planes flying in opposite directions, which led to true carnage, and the death of my previously bullet-proof Spitfire.
So, we added spikes and razor blades to leading edges of wings, and cranked the transformer up to fifty volts and then the fun really started on the Run ‘O’ Doom. Shredded shins were seen as a badge of honour. You did, however, tend to lose marks of full uniform inspections.
“And this,” said Flt Lt Tipping, a genuine WWII Bomber Command veteran, “is where the lads fly their electric planes.”
“How very interesting”, replied Air Vice Marshall Maisner CB CBE AFC, veteran of the Free Polish Air Forces in WWII, and now senior officer in charge of everything, ever. “It’s good to see the youth of today so fascinated in flyi….”
BAAAAAARRRRN! – Thwumpppppph – AAAAAAAAAARGH!
Corporal Hackett would never walk again. Luckily, however, the blood stains came out.
We were told to stop.
Thursday, December 01, 2005
Vote? Oh!
Vote? Oh!
After my starring performance on Al-Jazeera this week (see if you can spot my gorgeous features in this here Flickr set from the lovely people at the Al-Jazeera staff blog), it's time to show those Yankee imperialist pig-dogs and their puppet regime in Downing Street the true meaning of democracy.
Vote! Vote for tomorrow's Scary Story! Vote now, or its some secret prison camp in Romania where they send the Cheeky Girls to felch you to death with a straw. And ...oooohhh... it's a celebrity special:
* Pole-Dancing: "When he eventually came to, he realised that the hazy memory of masturbating himself to a frenzy in the centre circle during the FA Cup Final had not been some terrible dream. He had no choice. He would ask Sir Alex for a transfer straight away."
* The Operator: "Clutching the small bag containing Kirstie Allsopp's nail clippings, he headed back to his secret lab chuckling to himself. Yes, by tomorrow, Lord Archer would posses an army of Allsopps, all ready to do his terrible, terrible bidding."
* Dazed and Confused: "Fuckin' hell Felicity," Penelope Keith moaned, "I'm sick to death of rubbing up against this bollard. Can't I have a go on Professor Hawking now?"
* Potman: "Dogs! Is there no end to these awful, awful dogs!" David 'The Duke' Dickinson said to himself as he stumbled into the hospital's casualty unit. He would rue the day, he reflected, that he should choose to pursue his flashing hobby outside Crufts.
* Outhouse: "Poor Linford Christie. The invitation from the Palace specifically requested that he should bring his own refreshments. And now, his lunch was there, sitting on the kitchen table, but it was becoming increasingly apparent that he had nothing to carry it in."
And now, you may reward yourself with my flu-ridden Tunisia photos.
Stats Whore
November saw the most hits to this site in a calendar month ever ever ever, with one thousand of you arriving here every day. At least some of you even stopped to read the contents, though I'm pretty sure that the manky devil who arrived here from google looking for "Penelope Keith naked" went away disappointed.
Thank you for your support,send money I shall wear it always. send money
After my starring performance on Al-Jazeera this week (see if you can spot my gorgeous features in this here Flickr set from the lovely people at the Al-Jazeera staff blog), it's time to show those Yankee imperialist pig-dogs and their puppet regime in Downing Street the true meaning of democracy.
Vote! Vote for tomorrow's Scary Story! Vote now, or its some secret prison camp in Romania where they send the Cheeky Girls to felch you to death with a straw. And ...oooohhh... it's a celebrity special:
* Pole-Dancing: "When he eventually came to, he realised that the hazy memory of masturbating himself to a frenzy in the centre circle during the FA Cup Final had not been some terrible dream. He had no choice. He would ask Sir Alex for a transfer straight away."
* The Operator: "Clutching the small bag containing Kirstie Allsopp's nail clippings, he headed back to his secret lab chuckling to himself. Yes, by tomorrow, Lord Archer would posses an army of Allsopps, all ready to do his terrible, terrible bidding."
* Dazed and Confused: "Fuckin' hell Felicity," Penelope Keith moaned, "I'm sick to death of rubbing up against this bollard. Can't I have a go on Professor Hawking now?"
* Potman: "Dogs! Is there no end to these awful, awful dogs!" David 'The Duke' Dickinson said to himself as he stumbled into the hospital's casualty unit. He would rue the day, he reflected, that he should choose to pursue his flashing hobby outside Crufts.
* Outhouse: "Poor Linford Christie. The invitation from the Palace specifically requested that he should bring his own refreshments. And now, his lunch was there, sitting on the kitchen table, but it was becoming increasingly apparent that he had nothing to carry it in."
And now, you may reward yourself with my flu-ridden Tunisia photos.
Stats Whore
November saw the most hits to this site in a calendar month ever ever ever, with one thousand of you arriving here every day. At least some of you even stopped to read the contents, though I'm pretty sure that the manky devil who arrived here from google looking for "Penelope Keith naked" went away disappointed.
Thank you for your support,