Friday, July 29, 2005

Foot in mouth

Don’t stop me if I've told you this one before, because I have, and the whole thing can now be retold with the woe turned up to eleven.

Thanks to brotherly connections, I had rustled up a couple of tickets to an end-of-season football match between Arsenal and Newcastle, at the home of football itself, Highbury. And being the nice guy that I am, I invited my utterly excellent father-in-law, Ken, along by way of a freebie. All we had to do was get up to The Smoke and take in what was, of course, going to be a glorious 6-0 humping against the Skunks.

All simple enough – we took the train up to Paddington and headed down to the Underground platform for a Circle Line train that would take us on to King’s Cross and a further train to Arsenal.

If you’ve ever been to London and waited for the Circle Line at any time of day, you’ll know that the trains are about one every three days and have a man walking in front with a red flag, so we were forced into a mammoth wait which slid into abject boredom once all the posters had been read, the chocolate machine vandalised and the line inspected for dead rats.

It was then that we met this gorgeous young lady that I had worked with a few years previously. We were soon engaged in conversation, trying not to mention how much I'd wanted to have a go on her when we were colleagues (mainly because that’s an incredibly bad thing to say in front of your wife’s father…). Not that I wanted to, obviously, being happily married an’ all that. But you know – blonde, sylph-like and all the bumps in the right places. And, unusually for a Russian woman (and not generalising in anyway at all here), hardly barking mad at all.

After several minutes of “what are you doing now” and getting her up to date on local gossip, I decided to allow my eyes to wonder south and broach the subject of the bleedin’ obvious:

"Oh," I said, gesturing to the bump, "when's the baby due?"

Wait for it...

She flashed me the most wonderful smile.

Wait for it...

Fading to a look of withering disdain.

Wait for it...

"I'm not pregnant."

Pie retention.

Not baby.


Dad-in-law's guffaw's echoed down the platform and could be heard several stations away.

The platform completely failed to open up and swallow me.

Train came. I fled, Arsenal were shit and lost 1-0, and Ken (“’I’m not pregnant’ – you tit!”) laughed the whole way home.

Thursday, July 28, 2005

Corrupt Uncles

Vote-me-don't, as usual

Look, can't a man take a week off work and leave his website on autopilot every now and then?

I am off work. Painting a house, visiting the Lions at Longleat, or, more than likely, swatting the childs off the computer so I can have a go.

So, by the fool-proof scientific method know as "Ip Dip Dog Shit", I have already chosen tomorrow's tale of mirth and woe. And Lordy, it's woeful.

Nothing to see here (apart from an excellent bit below). Move along, ma'am.

Corrupt Uncles

From the Oxford Dictionary of Bollocks:

Corrupt uncle, n, Indirect method of talking about oneself in order to avoid a confession of any sort of wrongdoing or socially unacceptable action.
"My corrupt uncle needs a password for - can anybody help him?"

My corrupt uncle enjoys listening to downoladed music and looking at pictures of young ladies with very few clothes. How corrupt is YOUR uncle? Female readers may wish to tell us about their slightly-out-of-order aunt.

Wednesday, July 27, 2005

Never go back

Never go back

I went back to Twyford. The village I grew up in. The village I hadn’t set foot in for the best part of twenty years. The village where, more importantly, I’d set fire to things, blown stuff up, discovered porn stashes before running away, laughing and screaming from the village plod as yet another prank backfired.

Even taking off the rose-tints, I loved that place and still do, as the memories blur.

And so, I went back to take some photos that might end up in this book of mine, and to drop in on an old friend to find out if he wouldn’t mind appearing in certain tales of mirth and woe, or would he rather I disguised him a bit.

I never expected the place to be the same as I left it. After all, every commuter belt town and village around the M25 has been virtually concreted over in the last couple of decades, and I knew, with my roots long removed, that it was never going to live up to expectations.

Twyford’s heart is gone.

The residents will deny it, of course, but it simply vanished the day they built a monster supermarket at the crossroads and tarmacked everything else for its car park. With everything from TV dinners to ready cash to newspapers all from one place, the other shops in the village simply gave up and boarded up, leaving only struggling novelty stores and endless, endless estate agents. “Fabulous Bathrooms” clearly isn’t. The Berkshire Dolls-House Centre acts as a crutch for the chemist.

Even the High Street banks, defeated by the cash machine up sticks and left as did the pubs, leaving only JW Greenes, the lowest common denominator of fun-pub convenience. I hated it back then, and I still hate the flock wallpapered monstrosity. Even the King’s Ar_s – they went years without replacing the stolen “M”, and now it’s an ugly, ugly restaurant to go with all the other ugly restaurants that were once shops.

Only the Gaylord Tandoori survives, bless ‘em, this once-thriving village now nothing but another London suburb, an anonymous dormitory town for those who can afford to pay for the so-called village life that is just another small town by a motorway.

Away from the centre, the looming great hill I biked and skateboarded down to my doom was nothing but a slight incline, the gardens smaller and the roads narrower. Or perhaps I’m just two decades bigger. Where we played in the street, parked cars block any route to childish fun. It’s no good, it’s gone now.

And Matty was out. In fact he was a long, long way out. Sydney, New South Wales.

It was the most depressing experience of my life.

Woe, even.

I may have to go back and set fire to a hedge, just for old time’s sake.

Tuesday, July 26, 2005

The Best Person Ever

The Best Person Ever

After the raging success of the Worst Person Ever Awards, we thought we should balance the whole thing up with a vote for the Bestest Person, Ever. Obviously, once the whole thing is settled, we’d like them all to go head-to-head in a battle to the death to settle the whole good-vs-evil thing for once and for all.

Here’s a few suggestions:

Jesus Christ. Despite dying horribly two thousand years ago, there are those who say he’s still with us doing good deeds an’ all that. Hardly his fault, though, that people have taken his whole “Love thy Neighbour” message the wrong way, resulting in endless wars and the slaughter of millions. And it’s undoubtedly tough to find out your name’s a cuss-word as well. Let’s hear it for the excellent J.Christ, still appearing on people's toast to this day!*

Or I could just cop out and go for Ian Botham. A God amongst men. That may be a bat of finest English willow in his hand, but it may as well be Excalibur. Truly excellent, apart all them drugs he did.


* Also, I am certain that he'd give P. Collins a righteous kicking.

Monday, July 25, 2005



On Saturday 23 July 2005, in the B&Q car park in Weymouth - a red Ford Mondeo S 999 KRS. My quest is complete. Thank fuck for that.


When we were kids, car journeys would be made more bearable by my father paying us 1p for every car number plate we spotted that added up to a certain figure. He routinely chose 19, because our own car - FLM 685 J gave us one for free. Oh, how those pennies rolled in. I could have turned pro, y'know. I one went on a journey in a friend's car. They played "How many red cars can you spot?" Hardly much of a challenge there, I think you'll agree.

Some time in early 2003, celebrity blogger Richard Herring mentioned Consecutive Number Plate Spotting, a rather sad game where you attempt to spot car number plates with the numbers 1 - 999. In order. After my previous experience, I vowed not to get involved.

I made a point not to notice the bus with the number plate MRD 1. Then the number 2... I got stuck on 17 for weeks, which belongs to the chip shop at the top of our road.

Undoubtedly, the switch from train to car speeded things up a bit, and I soon developed a driving style that allowed me to glance at oncoming number plates without crashing into them. Not without its risks, though - spotting 998 on the A35 near Dorchester resulted in the locking of brakes and skidmarks left both on the road and in the trousers.

And now. After two-and-a-half years (which I'd rather like to have back, thank you Mr Herring), it is over. I'm left rather at a loose end now that I am no longer looking at number plates. Can anyone suggest what I can do now?

I know: "Get a life".

Friday, July 22, 2005

Scott the Plank

Scott the Plank

Why did so many people hate Scott the Plank the moment they set eyes on him? Simple – it saved time.

There is a very small list of people to whom even Mother Teresa of Calcutta would have sent a parcel of her own poo, and Scott the Plank would have been number one on that list. I am pretty certain, that the dearly beloved Angel of Calcutta would have given him a damn good kicking.

I first met him as a fresh-faced trainee at the Ministry of Cow Counting, and laying eyes on his pink Top Man cardigan, one word immediately entered my head: “cunt”.

And, fabulously, my first impression was one hundred per cent correct. A Colin Hunt of the first order, who everybody loathed with equal measure. It’s great when one person unites and entire office, isn’t it?

He could – and often did – argue with anyone, and it was a miracle that no-one ever beat the crap out of him in the office. Not least Dr Ian Paisley MP, who made regular appearances in our offices to ensure that the special wheelbarrows of cow money were on their way to his constituents in South Down. And Scott the Plank would argue with him about how many sugars he wanted in his tea. And sodomy.

Scott the Plank was lucky to be alive.

But hey! This story’s got a happy ending! Happy for us, bad news if you happen to be Plank Features.

Scott wanted a couple of weeks off to go to a Christian music festival in a field somewhere in the Midlands*. This revelation came as no surprise to the rest of us, because he was exactly the kind of obnoxious, judgmental twat the happy-clappy branch of organised religion seems to throw up. Strangely, they all thought he was a first-order cunt, too. Unfortunately for Scott the Plank, however, he had already used up all but three days of his leave allowance and it was only May.

“That’s OK,” he said, “I’ll just go for three days and I’ll be back before you know it.”

“Fuck off then, there’s a chap.”

Thursday morning. The phone rang.

“Hello?” said a heavily disguised voice at the other end of the line, “Scott’s broken his leg and he’s in hospital in Nottingham. Sorry.”

Sorry for what? Scott was away from us for the foreseeable future. This was good news. And to celebrate, we got a 29p card from Reading Market and sent it on to him, care of Nottingham City Hospital. I think I may even have written “Don’t hurry back” by way of a greeting.

The boss even relented on the leave thing, and granted him two weeks’ worth of sick leave on the proviso he came back with a certificate from a named member of the medical profession.

No matter. A week passed, and Scott the Plank was back with us, hobbling along on crutches, his leg in a cast.

“What card?” he asked. Also: “Certificate? I …err… lost it. The dog ate it.”

On Tuesday, the cast was gone, replaced with a light bandage.

On Wednesday, he was already forgetting to limp.

At exactly 4.31pm on Thursday, he was seen running for a bus in Broad Street, his pink Top Man cardigan flapping in the wind behind him.

At exactly 9.01 the following morning, he was escorted from the building (“Mind my leg, it’s broken” – “Is it fuck”), his Garfield “I think I’m allergic to Mondays” mug consigned, literally, to the dustbin of history.

I never saw the irritating bastard again, and for that small mercy we held a leaving do in his honour.

* Proof indeed that the devil has all the best tunes. Even a Phil Collins duet with Lionel Ritchie about poor homeless blind children would be better than Christian Rock.

Thursday, July 21, 2005

It’s just one huge vote-o this week

It’s just one huge vote-o this week

And the voting-up never seems to stop. Choose, then, tomorrow’s tale of mirth and woe. Choose! Or die!

* Foot in Mouth – “Mmmmmph”, he said, realising that this particular fetish wasn’t all it was cracked up to be
* Thumb – “Nyaaaaargh!”, he said, realising that this particular fetish was worse than the last one
* Scott the Plank – “Spaaangngngng!”, he said, realising that normal people just didn’t do this kind of thing

The value of quotes, as usual, may go up or down.

And the Winner …err… Loser is…

After two days of frantic ballot box stuffing (I'm so proud of you), we are finally able to announce the winners of the Scaryduck Worst Person Ever Awards.

UK Edition: Phil Collins.

Rightly so, for a life of smug wankery, turning Genesis into a pop band, making Buster and being a bald cunt.

Any excuse, then:

Phil Collins talks nonce sense

US Edition: Tom Cruise.

We have been asked to publish a message from Mr Cruise's legal representatives, and who are we to refuse?

"Tom Cruise is glad to accept this award as the best person in the world, ever. Strutting, manly, six foot ten Cruise, who has never touched a man's bottom and is not mad in any way whatsoever, encourages you all to go and pay to see his latest film by way of celebration.

His recent engagement to a luscious, pouting and by all means tall Hollywood starlet whose name he can't quite remember right now - but you really ought to pay money to see her latest film as well - proves how excellent he really is; and he never has, never will cave into the urge to touch a man's bottom. Long live Cruise, towering, heterosexual king of the universe!"

Coming next week: The Best Person in the World award - the winner of which will then go head-to-head with Phil Collins in a fight to the death. See? I said you should have voted for Kilroy, but did you listen?

Wednesday, July 20, 2005

Irrational Fears, too

Irrational Fears, too

My daughter has a thing about eating in restaurants or buying takeaway food. She has to see the food being prepared or she won’t touch it. This all stems from a visit to a takeaway outlet a few years ago when she witnessed one of the McDroids sneezing over the French fries when he should have been adding salt, and continuing as if nothing had happened.

I too share this fear of restaurant food. But this is because I have read “Fight Club”. Whenever I eat out, the words “I would strongly advise you not to order the clam chowder” ring around my head. Which is lucky. I hate clam chowder. With an active enough imagination, you can go off any food.

But then, I’ve seen what goes into “Value” meat pies.

Also: there’s nothing worse that seeing what makes a vending machine work*. It’s a sickening maze of plastic hoppers, tubes and arcane, ungodly machinery that has absolutely nothing to do with the creation of a passable cup of coffee. It may say “Nescafe” on the outside, in inside, it’s clearly bits of a dalek.

People who drink vending machine tea – or worse, vending machine soup – deserve everything they get.

* Apart from waking up in bed between Bernard Manning and Jimmy Carr

The ...err... Wednesday vote-o

Get your votes in – one more day left in the Worst Person Ever Travesty of the Democratic Process Poll, and if Kilroy doesn’t win, I’m going off to start my own political party.

Vote closes: when I feel like it.

Tuesday, July 19, 2005

The Worst Person Ever Awards, Again

The Worst Person Ever Awards, Again

Good grief, wading through your comments last week took me on a voyage through a sea of bile not seen since the unfortunate flensing of Ann Widdecombe on her recent visit to Oslo. Still, I spent a rather enjoyable evening whittling the list down to ten UK wankers and another ten worthless shits for the US edition.

I've tried to populate the final shortlists with people who are still alive, which means I had to dump dozens of nominations for animal-loving God-botherer St Francis of Assisi, but thems the breaks. For the purposes of this survey, then, I have reluctantly had to accept that Margaret Thatcher still walks amongst us.

Yes, I know that some of you are going to be disappointed by my final choices, and you are more than free to go off in a huff and start a "Scaryduck is the Worst Blogger Ever" poll, and there is nothing to stop you. Don't be surprised, however, to find a freshly steaming turd through your letterbox first thing in the morning, though. I have incredibly agile spies everywhere, and the intimidation of voters is all part of the democratic process.

Vote now! Vote often! I want to see proper ballot box stuffing in the Florida stylee. This is democracy in action, and I will not accept a fair result.

Vote closes: when I feel like it.

Monday, July 18, 2005



I was dragged into QS the other day. That’s QS – the shop that is no longer Quality Seconds that flogs clothes that don't usually fall to pieces within a week.

Whilst doing the usual supportive-husband-whilst-clothes-shopping thing (nodding in the right places and remembering to look interested), my attention was diverted to the bargain bin by the till.

Two of your English pounds, ladies, buys you a bra with inflatable cups. Inflatable cups, which you pump up (and hey, I know where I’d place the nozzle!) to make fried-egg lady-bumps look bigger.

Now, excuse me, I’m a man of the world, and I, for one, find this a rather worrying development. I mean, apart from a warm and pleasing personality, what else does a man look for an a female partner? Exactly.

The whole concept is little short of fraud, and should be stamped out forthwith.

Secondly, there's the question of cross-dressers. God forbid that we should make these people look convincing. Where would the world be if we didn't know who was boy and who was no-tail? Letting Culture Club get to number one, that's where (he said, about twenty years too late). I've seen Mrs Doubtfire, and it's wrong, WRONG, WRONG. They'll be having girls with facial hair and socks down the front of their undercrackers in no time flat, you mark my words.

And good grief, if things aren't bad enough as it is, there’s the safety issue as well. Heaven knows what might happen if there’s an explosive decompression.

Stop this filth NOW!

I am not mad.


I Need Help - "I've learned my lesson. The words 'fanny flaps' will just never be sexy."

Friday, July 15, 2005

Incy Wincy - Eight-legged woe

Incy Wincy

I hate spiders.

They hate me.

It’s a good enough arrangement that has stood both species in good stead for at least four decades, and hardly anyone has got hurt. Just as long as everybody stays on message and the ones with far too many legs remain out of sight, everything is fine and dandy. Daddy Long Legs are excluded from this understanding, and may we swatted, stomped or wound up in web silk at any time.

Every now and then, however, it goes horribly wrong. With disastrous consequences for both human and arachnid.

So, picture if you can, me, lying in bed, scratching me plums. Neither pretty nor attractive is it? Actually, you’d be wrong because I am sex defined and only work, family and writing commitments have stopped me from taking up various offers to become the next Ron Jeremy*.

After a few seconds of scratchy bliss, I noticed an annoying tickly itch on my shin. An itch that simply wouldn’t die. An itch that was moving inexorably upwards, past my knee, towards my thigh…

Whipping back the covers, there was this large, scowling house spider crawling up my leg, making a determined effort to hog-tie me and store my still twitching corpse in its evil web before feeding me to its scuttling, many-legged family.

There was a horrible girlie scream of arachnophobic terror. And when I had quite finished, Mrs Duck screamed as well.

“There’s a spider! On your leg!”

Top marks, then, for observation.

With the kind of swift, manly movement not seen since about 1985, I jumped out of my pit, threw the eight-legged menace to the floor and tried to give Spidey his just desserts - the discipline of the carpet slipper.

For a long, long second we faced each other, planning our next moves. This was life-or-death, and we eyed each other up like Napoleon eyeing his arch-nemesis Wellington across the field of Waterloo. Only Spidey had the eye advantage on my by a factor of four, and double the limbs, obviously. Also, I am unable to shit string.

My attempts to stamp on the hairy little bastard were to no avail. It was too good for me, and in a one-sided battle twixt man and beast, the little fucker ran back up my pyjama leg, making a bee-line for the relative safety of my pods, the forbidden forest where it knew I couldn't thwack him to death with a slipper.

I was forced to strip naked in a blind panic, and shoo the thing away from my manhood with a rolled-up copy of a photographic magazine**, before scooping it up in my bare hands (because that’s how brave and manly I am when the adrenaline starts to flow) and chucking it out of the window. Stitch that you eight-legged freak – I hope you brought a parachute.

All this time, Mrs Duck was standing on a chair like Tom and Jerry's Mammy Two Shoes screaming "Don't let it near me! Don't let it near me!" Which was nice of her, because it was only interested in my manly bloke bits after all.

It was in my moment of glory in this particular episode of human domination over the world of spider that I was now standing naked and framed gloriously in the bedroom window, as a number seventeen bus drew up outside, full of pissants returning from a night on the tiles in town. And for those on the top deck, the floor show had just begun.

Evil spidey bastard – had it planned all along.

* Not to mention the fact that this is also a dreadful lie.
** That’s a proper photographic magazine you filthy-minded devils, none of that art-house, red-hot flanges nonsense, I’ll have you know.

Thursday, July 14, 2005

Lazy Blogging, Part XXXVIII

Lazy Blogging, Part XXXVIII

Another week, another ducking of my Thursday vote-o responsibilities. However, all is not lost. A none-more-busy Friday at Scaryduck Towers will still feature a high quality tale mirth AND woe, featuring a life-and-death struggle between man and beast, and brazen public nudity. What more can you ask?

Apart from talking crap in my comments. So…

Following the abject failure of Cunt Eye to top himself in my tale of woe a couple of weeks ago, we thought we could do him a favour by giving him a few tips in shuffling off this mortal coil.

We present, then, edited highlights from “101 Ways to Kill Yourself”, brazenly cut-and-pasted from the same Other Place that brought us yesterday’s “Worst Person Ever” poll idea (which will return next week).

It is, you realise, Lazy Week round here. If I could think of ways to avoid the chore of typing, I wou…

A rather poorly timed and exceedingly tasteless list of 101 Humourous or Ironic Ways to Kill Yourself

8. Bum the Queen senseless during the Royal British Legion Festival of Remembrance. During the National Anthem. With a scaffolding pole. Hey presto! They get a nice man with an axe to do the job for you.

21. Build a time machine and kill your dad before you were born. However, do not take pity on your mum, slip her a sympathy shag and end up being your own dad. This would be WRONG.

22. Pay Paul McKenna to hypnotise you into thinking you are a hedgehog. It's only a matter of time before you end up a red smear on the M1.

30. Buy a timeshare flat in "Sunni" Fallujah.

45. Appear on You've Been Framed juggling tigers. If, by chance, you survive, you'll get 250 quid, a witty comment from Harry Hill and a quickie from Lisa Riley, which may just finish you off.

46. Make an appointment to see Dr Harold Shipman about your verruca ten years ago.

51. Rub your genitals in the face of King Fahd of Saudi Arabia, whilst toking on the world's fattest doobie. (See number 8 above)

52. Go back in time to the year 30, grow a beard, get some sandals, use your hover-tron to pretend to walk on water, pay some bloke to pretend to come back from the dead, tell everybody that Jehovah's your old man, and presto! Nailed up before you know it.

64. Change your name to Sarah Connor, move to Los Angeles, and wait for a large, Austrian robot to knock on the door.

79. Buy every single Leonard Cohen record in the world, listen to them, then jump off a cliff or something.

90. Have plastic surgery to look like Maxine Carr, then enter the London Marathon.

Add. More.

Wednesday, July 13, 2005

The Scaryduck ‘Worst Person Ever’ Awards

The Scaryduck ‘Worst Person Ever’ Awards

We need to know. You need to know. And thanks to an ongoing discussion in another place we are able to tell you.

Nominations, then, are open to find the Official Worst Person Ever in association with “Hello!” magazine, the publication for vapid cunts.

Allow me to make a start on this venerable work:

Kate Moss. Already the World’s Stupidest Woman, plumbs new depths with her relationship with the crack addict’s crack addict Pete Doherty. ‘Highlights’ of her celebrity include the reported cat-walk comment “See that necklace? It’s been up my arse.” A google image search finds approximately three results out of 10,000 featuring alleged “supermodel” Moss wearing actual clothes. An example to us all.

Jeffrey Archer. The worst person ever throughout the eighties and the nineties has found his crown slipping over recent years. Perhaps a spell in the Big House has blunted his edge as a fully paid-up bonafide twat, as he’s not lied, cheated or generally annoyed the crap out of the entire country for years. "You wait 'till I'm Mayor, you'll find out how tough I am! Christ Almighty..." Prick.

Geri Halliwell. Look, I don’t need a reason. An empty shell of a person who constantly craves attention like a vampire needs fresh blood, or else she’ll wither away and die. If I ruled the world, I’d have her fired out of a cannon straight up Vanessa Feltz’s flanges.

Also: Richard and Judy, Peter Andre, Katie “Jordan Price”, The Beckhams plc, Ann Widdecombe, Mother Teresa of Calcutta and many, many others.

Nominate-me-up, with your reasons, and we can have a full-on vote on this. Naturally, I’d like to give the winner their prize in person, which would make it even more aces, and adds a level of risk to the proceedings you don’t see in regular award shows.

Let me leave you with one final thought: Prince Edward, Duke of Wessex - so useless, he can't even win this competition.

Tuesday, July 12, 2005

Oh Lordy, here he comes with more bloody SCIENCE

Oh Lordy, here he comes with more bloody SCIENCE

I said I would never report on Science again, but, y’know, shit happens, and Coleman’s Law of Cash Machines forms in my head.

A man using a cash machine, is like a father-to-son phone call and will only last for about thirty seconds before the transaction is completed. Card – PIN number – withdraw cash – fifty quid* – done.

Women, on the other hand, and like the equivalent mother-to-daughter phone conversation can make this straightforward task last for several hours.

Rummage in handbag for card - card – PIN – forget PIN – look it up in not-very-well-hidden-part-of-diary-in-handbag – PIN – study menu – check balance – select printed balance – study menu – select mini statement – study both print-outs – study menu – select specially hidden girls-only menu – press loads of buttons to no effect until card pops out by mistake – put card back in - forget PIN – look it up in not-very-well-hidden-part-of-diary-in-handbag – PIN – check balance again – withdraw cash – ten pounds – with advice slip – “would you like another service?” – ponder this deep philosophical question as if the future of civilization depends on it – select “show me a nice picture of a kitten” – carry on, forever because I’m in the queue behind you

I, as a man, cannot be trusted with money. She, as a woman, cannot be trusted with the technology, and therein lies the paradox. The only solution, like the queue for the toilets because someone’s taken a copy of Bella in with her, is to have His and Hers cash machines.

I shall write to Mr NatWestBarclaysMidlandsLloyds immediately.

*Now that's wishful thinking

Monday, July 11, 2005

Guilty pleasures

Guilty pleasures

When I'm not thinking up tales of mirth and woe, I like to read the Daily Confession, a daily e-mail-me-do filled with the worst of people. OK, more often than not it’s all about American teens’ brushes with immorality, but every now and then they throw up a classic:

I am a single male living in a small apartment.
My girlfriend came over and helped me clean my place last weekend. We cleaned everything- the sinks, the toilet, the mirrors, the windows, the end tables.
I don't have a toilet brush and I use an old toothbrush that I store in the wastebasket for this purpose (weird, I know). Well, this morning, I realized that the toothbrush I have been brushing my teeth with for the past few days is THAT BRUSH. I had left it on the toilet tank and my girlfriend saw it and moved it by the sink.
I may die...


I pooped in my garbage can because I was too lazy to walk down the hall to the bathroom. It was dark, I was drunk, it seemed like the thing to do at the time.

Next morning - the room reeks and it turns out that somehow, I mistook my open backpack for the trashcan.

Not my brightest moment.

Christ, it's almost as if they know me.

Anybody out there want to confess something? It's good for the soul, and we will be laughing with you, not at you*.

* May not strictly be true

Friday, July 08, 2005

Muff diver

Muff diver

The last person who lived in our house before us was a big bearded fella who used to work on the oil rigs. It turned out it wasn’t exciting enough for him, so he gave it all up for the heart-stopping thrills of a seaside launderette instead, his life now revolving (quite literally) around other people’s shit-and-spunk-stained hotel sheets. There’s money in shit, it turns out, lots of it. He is, however, quite welcome to it.

When he moved out, being an utterly lazy bugger, he left a few things behind. Number one being the world’s largest cheese plant, which we had to hack to pieces to get out through the patio doors; and number two being a shed and a garage bursting to the seams with his junk.

We ignored the mounds of crap for as long as we could, but after a while, yes, we would actually like to use the garage we had paid good money on, and the shed might come in handy one day as an emergency outside toilet. Hiring a skip, we spent days clearing the place of his useless tat before we could move our own piles of useless tat in.

And what tat! He was like Mr Trebus in his magpie-like obsession with hoarding complete and utter junk. There were boxes and boxes of old tools caked in rust and filth as if they’d been personally rescued from the bottom of a swamp. There was box after box of fishing tackle, all broken and totally useless in one way or another. And all the plastic flower pots in the whole world, which surprised us somewhat, as the monstrous cheese plant was the only living thing on the entire premises.

And there, right at the back, hulking like a big hulky thing was an entire deep-sea diving suit, complete with screw-down helmet, lead boots and an impressive array of knives, in case, we presumed, a killer squid might attack him on his way to the Off Licence.

It stunk. It stunk like there was a dead body inside it, and perhaps there was. We dragged the thing to the skip, arms and legs coming off as we went, the whole episode resembling a scene from a zombie movie as it creaked and farted from the strain.

And there, sitting behind it, was a suitcase. An old, battered, brown suitcase tied up with string that looked that it might contain either Paddington Bear’s marmalade sandwiches, or the mankiest, filthiest pornographic magazines you ever set your eyes on.

Go on, guess.

They were the worst sandwiches I ever tasted.

Wrong! Allow me, if you will, to give you a random sample of the goods, translated from the original German. It should be pointed out, however, that my time with the merchandise was strictly limited, as many of the pages were mysterious stuck together (one presumed by “marmalade”), and Mrs Duck whipped the filth from my hands and flung the case-o-smut under the fetid diving outfit in the skip, where it belonged.

Mourn, then, for these lost classics:

”Oh Hans!” Helga is shouting “Shit on my tits you big stud!”


With a sewer from her mind, Inge likes things up her arse. Then Horst is coming home to a big surprise!


Lotte likes to shave Peter’s cock and balls! Peter likes to be tied up by Lotte! Together, they are pair of happy happy fuckers!

Poor Mr Diver. It must get so lonely in decompression.

A late-night raid on the skip, intended to rescue the case and forward it on to our man’s launderette, where it could be recycled in much the way old People’s Friends are used in doctors’ surgeries, was stealthily planned and executed. But the local magpies had been, and after fishing out the dead mattress and the Reliant Robin, the case-o-filth was nowhere to be seen.

I just hope it’s gone to a good home…

Thursday, July 07, 2005

This is not a drill

My "brane"* hurts

I have stumbled across the most frighteningly complex and technical blog ever to link to me: - one man’s struggle to understand the cosmos without making it up as he goes along.

Don’t try to understand it. I am certain that this weblog exists in at least seven dimensions (including two we don’t even know about yet), and was written a week next Tuesday and sent to the internet via a parallel multiverse. Or something.


* A theoretical physicists' joke. Who says scientists don't have a sense of humour?

This is not a drill

It's a computer, you idiot. A computer with a Thursday vote-o on it. Here's the deal and the deal is this:

Next week sees Duck vs Useless Workshy Cunt of a Builder coming before a judge, so I'm taking a few days off to prepare. If the Tourette's flares up again, I could be away for a long, long time, sharing a very small room with a gentleman called Bubba, if you get what I mean.

The vote, then, is a simple London vs Paris job. Which one deserves to get published, and which barely prepared chancer is going to win? The choice is yours, and there is no Madrid alternative.

* Incy Wincy: contains brief nudity, swearing
* Muff Diver: contains explicit references to a number of deviant sexual acts, some of which you may even have heard of

Vote, as I am wont to say at this time on a Thursday, me-do.

Wednesday, July 06, 2005



Well dip me in icing sugar and call me Mary, the 2012 Olympics are coming to Weymouth. I am so happy, in fact, I can hardly go to the toilet properly.

In the Olympic spirit, I wonder how much I can get if I rent my house out for the duration?


Watching rubbish satellite television so you don’t have to.

TBN Europe – Channel 674: I’m going to be awfully specific here, as I don’t make a point of watching the religious channels, simply because they are all the proof you need that the Devil really does have all the best tunes.

However, I implore you to watch at 9am on Saturdays (just set the video, then) for Bibleman – the Good Book-bashing superhero. It’s Star Wars meets Batman meets Songs of Praise and it’s really, really brilliant*. Every episode ends with an earnest “Hey kids…” bit to camera.

For my lucky, lucky American readers, it is my happy duty to report, from viewing the Bibleman website, that our hero is on tour at a church near you. Get along there and repent – OR ELSE!

However, I would like to ask the question that all superheroes should be made to answer: “How to you go to the toilet in that get-up?”

* shit

Stupid job titles

I recently saw an advert on the job pages for a "Hydro-Ceramic Technician"

In other words, someone to do the washing-up in a restaurant for five quid an hour.

And poor the Austen Manungo – he even gets his own bottle-washing web page. God, I hope they’re being “ironic”.

Killing Dumbledore

Following yesterday's triumph at the hands of a Pratchettised Death, today, I have been mostly killing off Hogwarts' senior wizard in the style of a World War II sitcom. Watch out for ze Fallen Madonna with ze Big Boobies, Albus!

Tuesday, July 05, 2005

Treasure Hunt

Treasure Hunt

A new game of mirth and woe! It is called, rather unimaginatively “Let’s find stuff in other people’s open directories”, and the rules are incredibly simple.

* Go to google

* Search on: intitle:"index of" "Last modified" jpg *add your own keyword here*, replacing *add your own keyword here* with your own keyword, obviously. Like this.

* Explore the stuff of not-quite-net-savvy users

* Try to avoid porn. The management cannot be held responsible etc...

* Report back here with your outstanding finds - either in the comments, or better still, the discussion forum.

A fine example of an open directory run by a not-quite-net-savvy idiot can be found at Just so you know what you're looking for.

Go, my pretties! Come back with wacky stuff.


For some reason, I love the phrase “Nazi Cheerleaders”. It is often used by both press and politicians to describe people of an extreme right-wing persuasion too chicken to come out and admit the fact themselves.

However, I think this is a misnomer, and should be applied to small groups of female singers in mini-skirts:

“Adolf, Adolf he’s our man
If he can’t invade Belgium no-one can!”


“Oh Hitler you’re so fine
You’re so fine you blow my mind
Hey Hitler! Hey Hitler!”

I am not mad.

Also: A short tale on Robber Rabbit, featuring a man with Blackpool Tower up his arse. Now appearing on the Guardian Books section, because I have this: skill.

Monday, July 04, 2005

Poker face

Poker Face

February 19th 1992. England play France at the old Wembley Stadium in a friendly international, where nothing but cross-channel pride was at stake. For the large crowd, however, we were there to support a team featuring the likes of Lineker and Shearer, plus one Geoff Thomas, of whom the majority of the crowd were expecting great things against a strong, unbeaten French outfit.

So, at some point in the second half, Thomas picked up the ball in the French half, and, as the defence melted away before him, the goal beckoned.

The crowd roared its encouragement, and Thomas shot. From forty yards out. The ball went for a throw-in, and the pitch opened up and swallowed Thomas’s career in one gulp.

Poor old Geoff became a bit of a figure of fun around the football grounds of the UK, and the poor bugger ended up playing for Wolves.

Actually, I do him a disservice. Intelligent players are a rarity in British football – the vast majority are hardly able to string more than two words together, and any footballer with more than one GCSE is known as “Professor”. Geoff has a brain in his head, and a desire to succeed.

Two years ago, Geoff Thomas was diagnosed with leukaemia, a condition he fought with dignity, coming out the other end with a new determination to do something positive.

And this year, following the example of six-times winner and cancer survivor Lance Armstrong he’s doing the Tour de France.

Not the race, obviously, but hammering along a couple of days ahead of the field, raising cash for Leukaemia Research. So far, he’s raised sixty-three grand, and God, he deserves to raise more.

I’ve promised to stop taking the piss out of the Geoff Thomas Shot. Send money.

Crazy l33t sk1lls, again

In an all-too-soon return to an earlier thread, it is my duty to inform you of a talent I never knew I had, discovered during the Ducklings’ school summer fete.

“Gess teh number off sweets in the Jar”, said the poster (which I suspect may have been written by a teacher). So, I paid my 20p, waved my hand over the top in the accepted Jedi style and made my “gess”. 633.

Minutes later, there was another stall offering exactly the same competition. Bit of Jedi hocus-pocus, 447.

I am now the proud owner of 1080 sweets and a tin of Asda own-brand red kidney beans from the tombola. I am also this: as sick as a dog.

F3ar me and my l33t confectionary counting sk1llz, puny humans!

Hey! It's the 4th of July!

Take it away Cuddly Ken (Dec'd)!

"If they can't take a joke - round 'em up, put 'em in a field and bomb the bastards!"
Kenny Everett, genius and dead person

Friday, July 01, 2005

Cunt-Eye: Cathartic mirth and woe

Cunt-Eye: Cathartic mirth and woe

In which your author completely fails to show any sort of understanding or empathy toward a fellow human, at all; but instead swears a lot more than usual

Cunt-Eye stalked in me schooldays.

Cunt-Eye was a ginger freckled waste-of-space who got the nickname because his squint made him look like he had a pair of twats on his face. And because, by joyous coincidence, he was a complete cunt. He had the most dreadful homosexual crushes on virtually everybody he knew, including our entire class, schoolyard and teachers. And once he got his hooks into you, he made your life hell by hanging round outside your house until you threw things at him.

He kept turning up at our door, following me home and, once he’d learned to read the phone book, ringing up at all hours. He also did this to at least twenty-nine other people that I know of, and frankly, we suspected that he might just be a little bit touched in the head. A cry for help, perhaps. The cry being "I'm a complete git, and I want to touch your bottom. Help!"

I have vivid memories of chasing him down the street in my carpet slippers, kicking seven bells out of the cunt-eyed spacker’s rapidly retreating arse after he was caught trying to stick his cock through our letter box. Or something. I can’t say I was paying too much attention to precise details at that point.

Life as a Cunt-Eye victim was hell. However, salvation came from an unlikely source. Once he started making grubby phone calls to my mum, she went round his house and told his dad what she thought of his son in no uncertain terms. It turned out that Mr Eye was already of the enlightened opinion that his son, may, in fact, be a bit of a cunt. Result: he turned up to school the next day with one of his cunt eyes black and closed. Hardly one to condone domestic violence, but that was a bit of a result.

Once he started leaving graffiti outlining his varied and fetid sexual fantasies on the wall of the youth club (some of which is still there), we took appropriate action, and had him electrocuted. 240 volts of Her Majesty’s finest science lab electricity straight up the right arm until his ginger hair crackled and sparks jumped out of his pods. I can’t remember if this was before or after he tried to hang himself from a tree in the school orchard with a length of elastic, but then, sensitivity was never my strong point.

A tragic figure, he tried to top himself by jumping off the school footbridge onto the busy Bath Road below but was “scared of heights”. An attempt at death by alcohol poisoning was thwarted because “I didn’t want to get a headache”. On the day his parents were having the stair carpet replaced, he saw a nail sticking out of the floorboards in the hallway and seized his chance, throwing himself head-first down the stairs, hoping to impale himself on a rogue carpet tack.

He missed.

Frankly, this is not the sort of thing once announces in front of an audience of your peers, but he did, and completely failed to attract a sympathy shag. He was, however, carted off to another school, where the cycle started all over again.

I thought we’d seen the last of the squirt until a post appeared on a Friends Reunited message board recently “forgiving us all” for our behaviour toward him in his formative years as a cunt-eyed git. He’d also left similar messages for all the other schools he’d been to, plus “Akela” from a scout group and a dinner lady who almost certainly have restraining orders in place.

Forgive us? US? Excuse me for the lack of kindness and understanding for someone who clearly needed most urgent help, but you may have missed the point by some considerable distance. Only one of us was bonkers in this particular episode. You cunt-eyed bastard.