On the Box
Media whore that I am, I've been on the telly once or twice.
I was in the front row at a football match, and when the Arsenal scored, I can clearly be seen miming the actions of a man with an eight-foot penis, while Nigel Winterburn gave me a look that said "You spastic". It was, I fully understand, a defining moment in my life.
Earlier this year I was on Al-Jazeera asking pointed yet nonsensical questions on the US President's big idea of dropping red-hot spiky bombs on a civilian TV station funded by a sovereign state. And a few years ago, I was interviewed by Russian TV as part of a feature on my place of work. I was captioned "S. Duck, British Spy". Marvellous.
Queueing for cup final tickets -
TV's Mike Bushell: "Are you queueing for cup final tickets?"
Me: "No, I'm waiting for a bus."
TV's Mike Bushell: "Oh."
Walkers Crisps TV Advert
Researcher: "Eat a handful, then tell the camera what you think."
Me: "They're fuckin' ace."
Have you been on the box then? Crimewatch doesn't count.
Actually, no, Crimewatch DOES count. We were sat at home of an evening, and with little else to entertain us, we watched Nick Ross doing his best to put the fear of God into every pensioner in the country.
"Have you seen this man?" he asked as a low quality security camera image flashed onto the screen, "He's responsible for a number of frauds and thefts across the south of England, and police wish to talk to him about his role in a post office robbery."
"I've seen him", said Mrs Duck.
"Oh yes," says I, reaching for the phone.
"I went out with him at school."
I'm married to a TV celebrity gangster's moll.