On being an embarrassment in public
To the local Asda for a few household essentials. Our total purchase consists of a largely inoffensive mix of the following:
* Four large Galaxy bars
* A Bombay Bad Boy flavour Pot Noodle
* A six pack of Pedigree Chum dog food
* A two litre bottle of Domestos bleach
* A bottle of Gordon's Gin
As the sales assistant puts this little lot through the till, it is perhaps best not to say "Well, that's the kids' supper sorted, then", as they tend not to see the funny side, and may even phone the Social Services hit squad hotline before you've even left the car park.
So that's why I say it every time I go in.
And that's why Mrs Duck prefers to shop online.
A Widdy-Free Vote-o
I made a vow last week. I vowed thussly: "No matter what, there will be no room for Ann Noreen Widdecombe in this week's Thursday vote-o." And, this short mention aside, I am a man of my word. And buggered if I can think of anything to write for the vote-o quote-os that doesn't feature the member for Maidstone and The Weald. Damn you, unnecessary vows! See what you have wrought!
So, if you please, vote for one of the following five Tales of Mirth and Woe*, featuring - for once - actual quotes from the stories:
Conk: "Spackaspackaspackaspacka!"
Road Rage: "It was red, throbbing, with a vein down the side"
Graffiti: "Oh fuckery."
Kendo's Barbie of Woe: "You don't tend to theorize about the explosive tendencies of raw alcohol when your trousers are on fire"
Stripper: "Ouch, my bottom appears to be alight."
There appears to be a higher than average quota of burning genitalia this week, but that is only because I have yet to write the one about the DIY surgery. So, as always, it's your choice. Get in there!
* Get your spare copy now - the ideal Christmas present for a sweary friend or close relative
Thursday, November 30, 2006
Wednesday, November 29, 2006
Samuel Pepys: Ye worst week of myne lyfe
Samuel Pepys: Ye worst week of myne lyfe
26th November 1666: Up betimes, I fynde myselfe call'd to court by His Majesty to discuss matters regardynge His Majesty's Navy. On my arrival I fynde, to my dismay, that I have miss'd ye memo, and it is Dresse Downe Friday, whereupon I am greatly mock'd by the assembl'd nobility. Luckily, Mistress Hannan had a spare peek-a-boo ensemble, and I was lately suitably attir'd for ye occasion.
But alas! Ne'er since the days of Cromwell has so much brown-hatting been seen in polite society, and I was squarely caught offe myne guard by the syghte of unfetter'd gentlemenne's serpants. After a rough-and tumble with ye monstrously hang'd Duke of Buckingham, I may never sit on my poor bottom agayne. And so to bed, face down.
27th November 1666: Up betimes and to Highburye in ye village of Islyngton, where I didst witnesse a street brawle betwixt the villagers of ye Arsenal, and those of neighbouring Tottynghamme, whereupon a football match broke out. A gallic gentl'man call'd Henry didst astounde ye crowde with his trick'ry before cruelly behead'd by a Tottynghamme ruffian to the consternation of ye assembl'd crowde.
E'en though he has been deade these last two score and tenne yeares, we cannot forgette ye wordes of ye Barde of Stratforde, ye Brummie Gitte in this foule circumstance:
"My olde man sayde
Be a Tottynghamme fan
I sayde F'k offe, bollockes
Yr a c'nte!"
For, in my humbl'st opinion, ne'er have truer wordes been spok'n, but alas, I receiv'd some peasant's foote up my rear passage, and I'truth, it went right up ye hole and I was forc'd to crawl ye last two miles home. And so to bed, where, in myne agonies, I could not even summon the will to pull myself unto sleep.
28th November 1666: Office day, but myne bottom is still givynge me gyppe from the rogerynge I suffer'd at ye handes of ye Duke of Buckingham this last Friday, so I sent a boy out for a number of soothing balms from a quack physician I have knowledge of in ye village of Chelsea. I direct'd my darling wife to apply the lotion but alas, Mrs Pepys didst become mightily confus'd over which cream to employ. In her womanly bewilderment she became confound'd by the labels on ye bottles, and was under ye impression that ye newly imported "Chilly Paste", by the very sound of its name, would be ye medicine to sooth my throbbynge cleft. Making a poultice from ye entire jar, she slapp'd it on my tender ring and ballsack and bade me a good nyghte.
29th November 1666: It was not a good nyghte, for I spent the best part of seven hours, half naked and submerg'd in ye coolynge waters of ye Thames untille ye Nyght Watch did attempt to arrest me for "showynge a false light to shippynge", to whit, my glowynge bollockes which had attract'd a barge-full of amused onlookers who had been charg'd tuppence each for the privilege.
I was greatly encourag'd in my foulest of agonies by the sympathetic cries of Mrs Pepys, as she wallow'd in the grief of her infernal but honest wifely mistake. She wailed all nyghte in her despair, imploring God himself to call her a useless slutte and fill her with his red hot cream in my stead. I am tolde that it tooke three of my stoutest manservants to hold down her wrythnge body, and I reward'd the exhausted fellowes well the followinge morning. No wonder my employ is the most eagerly sought after in this City, & I do not know where I would be withoute that kindest of women.
30th November 1666: Once again to ye Dockes at Chatham to inspect the fleet and to pay off a number of ships. Twas a terryble ordeal, as ye roades were rutted and I feared that my very bunghole would rupture from the jarring and rockynge of the coach. Luckily, a Jack Tar didst espy me in my predicament, and tolde me of a remedy for my very ailment the sea dogs use on board ship involvynge a hammock and ye ramrod from ye shippe's largest gunne. Interest'd as I am at the welfare of the men under my charge, I shall follow this matelot below decks where a number of his stout shipmates promise to assist him in this strange yet traditional procedure, of which I shall write more anon.
1st December 1666: Alas, I am undone, ripp'd asunder, and I feare I shall never walk agayne.
26th November 1666: Up betimes, I fynde myselfe call'd to court by His Majesty to discuss matters regardynge His Majesty's Navy. On my arrival I fynde, to my dismay, that I have miss'd ye memo, and it is Dresse Downe Friday, whereupon I am greatly mock'd by the assembl'd nobility. Luckily, Mistress Hannan had a spare peek-a-boo ensemble, and I was lately suitably attir'd for ye occasion. But alas! Ne'er since the days of Cromwell has so much brown-hatting been seen in polite society, and I was squarely caught offe myne guard by the syghte of unfetter'd gentlemenne's serpants. After a rough-and tumble with ye monstrously hang'd Duke of Buckingham, I may never sit on my poor bottom agayne. And so to bed, face down.
27th November 1666: Up betimes and to Highburye in ye village of Islyngton, where I didst witnesse a street brawle betwixt the villagers of ye Arsenal, and those of neighbouring Tottynghamme, whereupon a football match broke out. A gallic gentl'man call'd Henry didst astounde ye crowde with his trick'ry before cruelly behead'd by a Tottynghamme ruffian to the consternation of ye assembl'd crowde.
E'en though he has been deade these last two score and tenne yeares, we cannot forgette ye wordes of ye Barde of Stratforde, ye Brummie Gitte in this foule circumstance:
"My olde man sayde
Be a Tottynghamme fan
I sayde F'k offe, bollockes
Yr a c'nte!"
For, in my humbl'st opinion, ne'er have truer wordes been spok'n, but alas, I receiv'd some peasant's foote up my rear passage, and I'truth, it went right up ye hole and I was forc'd to crawl ye last two miles home. And so to bed, where, in myne agonies, I could not even summon the will to pull myself unto sleep.
28th November 1666: Office day, but myne bottom is still givynge me gyppe from the rogerynge I suffer'd at ye handes of ye Duke of Buckingham this last Friday, so I sent a boy out for a number of soothing balms from a quack physician I have knowledge of in ye village of Chelsea. I direct'd my darling wife to apply the lotion but alas, Mrs Pepys didst become mightily confus'd over which cream to employ. In her womanly bewilderment she became confound'd by the labels on ye bottles, and was under ye impression that ye newly imported "Chilly Paste", by the very sound of its name, would be ye medicine to sooth my throbbynge cleft. Making a poultice from ye entire jar, she slapp'd it on my tender ring and ballsack and bade me a good nyghte.
29th November 1666: It was not a good nyghte, for I spent the best part of seven hours, half naked and submerg'd in ye coolynge waters of ye Thames untille ye Nyght Watch did attempt to arrest me for "showynge a false light to shippynge", to whit, my glowynge bollockes which had attract'd a barge-full of amused onlookers who had been charg'd tuppence each for the privilege.
I was greatly encourag'd in my foulest of agonies by the sympathetic cries of Mrs Pepys, as she wallow'd in the grief of her infernal but honest wifely mistake. She wailed all nyghte in her despair, imploring God himself to call her a useless slutte and fill her with his red hot cream in my stead. I am tolde that it tooke three of my stoutest manservants to hold down her wrythnge body, and I reward'd the exhausted fellowes well the followinge morning. No wonder my employ is the most eagerly sought after in this City, & I do not know where I would be withoute that kindest of women.
30th November 1666: Once again to ye Dockes at Chatham to inspect the fleet and to pay off a number of ships. Twas a terryble ordeal, as ye roades were rutted and I feared that my very bunghole would rupture from the jarring and rockynge of the coach. Luckily, a Jack Tar didst espy me in my predicament, and tolde me of a remedy for my very ailment the sea dogs use on board ship involvynge a hammock and ye ramrod from ye shippe's largest gunne. Interest'd as I am at the welfare of the men under my charge, I shall follow this matelot below decks where a number of his stout shipmates promise to assist him in this strange yet traditional procedure, of which I shall write more anon.
1st December 1666: Alas, I am undone, ripp'd asunder, and I feare I shall never walk agayne.
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
Rubbish excuses
Rubbish excuses
I know what you lot are thinking, you manky devils. But no, I deny it totally. You may be surprised, and perhaps somewhat disgusted to learn that I have never been caught giving myself a hand shandy. This good fortune is a result of excellent planning and a high quality, vibration-free technique of which I am justly proud.
Others, alas, are not so lucky. Many is the time (OK, twice, tops - it's not like I make a habit of it) have I caught friends at the height of their vinegar strokes, and only once have I seen fit to throw a bucket of water over them.
For these people, and many other unfortunates like them whose relationship with the discoverer of their secret, not to mention rather vocal, lust for one "Sophie" will never be the same again, they have but one alleyway into which to flee. That of the rubbish excuse.
When caught masturbating, the only valid rubbish excuse that may be used is "I was cleaning it". Unfortunately, this may then lead to the challenge:
"Oh yes, and what's this crusty sock I found under your bed?"
"I ...err... trod in milk."
And thereby all parties are satisfied.
It needn't be an uncovered act of bishop bashing, as this post is not entirely about the act of self-pleasure and the consequences of its untimely discovery. Oh no! It is about man's inability to (ahem) come clean when caught in a compromising situation.
My own fall from grace came one leery night down the pub, when I was dragged from a momentary trance by the voice of an otherwise charming young lady, directing her ire in my direction. To whit:
"Ere you! You! Stop staring at my tits!"
I was, I am afraid, bang to rights, but I blundered onwards, trying in vain to cover my tracks.
Putting on a faux Ulster accent, I countered this mountain of woman with the first thing that came into my head.
"Dere's a little spider. It's crawling across yer blouse. If yer careful, you might get it off."
Top quality thinking-on-your-feet, I thought, but no. And coming across as Jimmy Cricket probably didn't help.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Get it off. The spider. Not …err… your blouse."
"You... you disgust me."
If I wasn't the barman and in a position to give out free Babychams, things might well have got a lot worse from there.
They did. She kicked me in the shins when I emerged to collect the empty glasses.
What rubbish excuses have you given? Eh? EH?
Tomorrow: Oh Lordy, it appeares to be ye timely returne of Samuel Pepys FRS, MP. Bryng bottle & bird.
I know what you lot are thinking, you manky devils. But no, I deny it totally. You may be surprised, and perhaps somewhat disgusted to learn that I have never been caught giving myself a hand shandy. This good fortune is a result of excellent planning and a high quality, vibration-free technique of which I am justly proud.Others, alas, are not so lucky. Many is the time (OK, twice, tops - it's not like I make a habit of it) have I caught friends at the height of their vinegar strokes, and only once have I seen fit to throw a bucket of water over them.
For these people, and many other unfortunates like them whose relationship with the discoverer of their secret, not to mention rather vocal, lust for one "Sophie" will never be the same again, they have but one alleyway into which to flee. That of the rubbish excuse.
When caught masturbating, the only valid rubbish excuse that may be used is "I was cleaning it". Unfortunately, this may then lead to the challenge:
"Oh yes, and what's this crusty sock I found under your bed?"
"I ...err... trod in milk."
And thereby all parties are satisfied.
It needn't be an uncovered act of bishop bashing, as this post is not entirely about the act of self-pleasure and the consequences of its untimely discovery. Oh no! It is about man's inability to (ahem) come clean when caught in a compromising situation.
My own fall from grace came one leery night down the pub, when I was dragged from a momentary trance by the voice of an otherwise charming young lady, directing her ire in my direction. To whit:
"Ere you! You! Stop staring at my tits!"
I was, I am afraid, bang to rights, but I blundered onwards, trying in vain to cover my tracks.
Putting on a faux Ulster accent, I countered this mountain of woman with the first thing that came into my head.
"Dere's a little spider. It's crawling across yer blouse. If yer careful, you might get it off."
Top quality thinking-on-your-feet, I thought, but no. And coming across as Jimmy Cricket probably didn't help.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Get it off. The spider. Not …err… your blouse."
"You... you disgust me."
If I wasn't the barman and in a position to give out free Babychams, things might well have got a lot worse from there.
They did. She kicked me in the shins when I emerged to collect the empty glasses.
What rubbish excuses have you given? Eh? EH?
Tomorrow: Oh Lordy, it appeares to be ye timely returne of Samuel Pepys FRS, MP. Bryng bottle & bird.
Monday, November 27, 2006
On Buzzword Bingo
On Buzzword Bingo
Straight out of the top of Chris Morris's brains, actual genuine claptrap I've heard with my own ears recently:
"You are obviously not wearing a can-do headset"
"Hit me with your mind bullets"
"And if you have any ideas for our culture-change programme, you can download your brain to our thought-shower wiki."
"We need to be a kettle that rolls with the punches or the pot will be calling us black"
"No-one gives a honey-roasted fuck about your idea."
and, of course, the classic:
"Remember - there's no 'I' in team"*
Things went downhill from there…
I'm still hoping to throw in a "Let's plant a few idea trees and see if the dog of opportunity pisses up them" at some stage, nanoseconds before my sacking.
So: Be a pro-active team player and add your own buzzword bullshit.
* The answer to this being, of course, "Yes, but there's a 'U' in cunt".
Also: Duck News on how we are taking the war to Vladimir Putin by farting in a jar. And you think I just make this crap up.
Straight out of the top of Chris Morris's brains, actual genuine claptrap I've heard with my own ears recently:
"You are obviously not wearing a can-do headset"
"Hit me with your mind bullets"
"And if you have any ideas for our culture-change programme, you can download your brain to our thought-shower wiki."
"We need to be a kettle that rolls with the punches or the pot will be calling us black"
"No-one gives a honey-roasted fuck about your idea."
and, of course, the classic:
"Remember - there's no 'I' in team"*
Things went downhill from there…
I'm still hoping to throw in a "Let's plant a few idea trees and see if the dog of opportunity pisses up them" at some stage, nanoseconds before my sacking.
So: Be a pro-active team player and add your own buzzword bullshit.
* The answer to this being, of course, "Yes, but there's a 'U' in cunt".
Also: Duck News on how we are taking the war to Vladimir Putin by farting in a jar. And you think I just make this crap up.
Friday, November 24, 2006
Mirth and Woe: Take a Break
Take a Break
One of those 'Scary's Family' posts I promised I would never post. Still, sleeping on the sofa's not that bad.
If you're not a breeder, you'll never understand how magazines like Take A Break and their ilk manage to fill page after stinking letters page with cute little sayings from their readers' offspring. What lovely, lovely little darlings they must have.
Our children, on the other hand, I class as "normal", and therefore feel obliged to send little snippets of the things they say to "Take a Mank" magazine, if it exists, at all.
So, when Scaryduckling was a lovely little two-year-old, she ran into the kitchen in a state of child-like excitement. Hardly surprising, what with her being a child an' everything.
"Look mum" said my two year old daughter, clutching something long, pink and thin, "A Barbie leg!"
It wasn't a Barbie leg at all. Rather an ill-advised present I had purchased from a certain shop on the outskirts of Oxford. The type that doesn't have any windows, and charges a fortune for magazines featuring ladies with hardly any clothes on.
It was a good thing, in retrospect, that it didn't have any batteries in it.
I wrote the letter. We never got ten quid from Take a Break, the bastards.
Of course, that couldn't be the end of it. We bred again, and now we had two little darlings providing us with Take a Break ammo.
"Look mummy, it's an airplane!" said Scaryduck Jr.
It wasn't an airplane.
It was a certain brand of sanitary product with wings on.
All the way down the front hall.
All the way up the stairs.
All over the front windows, giving a lovely miniature airshow for the passengers on the number 17 bus.
Take a Break still didn't send us a tenner, and I even sent them a series of humourous photographs into the bargain.
"And Daddy, you've run out of balloons," said Scaryduckling, "Can you tie a knot in this one?"
"They aren't balloons. They're chewing gum."
Asking for it...
"I didn't like them. They tasted funny."
And:
"Daddy, why have the ladies in your book got no clothes on? They'll get cold and then they won't feel very well. Tell them to get dressed."
And:
I have promised not to mention "Oh No! Mummy's painting her bum!" as the circumstances are far too embarrassing for all concerned. Work it out for yourselves.
Take a Break must have a file on me at least six inches thick. I still never got a tenner.
Blatant plug for Duck News: HERE
One of those 'Scary's Family' posts I promised I would never post. Still, sleeping on the sofa's not that bad.
If you're not a breeder, you'll never understand how magazines like Take A Break and their ilk manage to fill page after stinking letters page with cute little sayings from their readers' offspring. What lovely, lovely little darlings they must have.Our children, on the other hand, I class as "normal", and therefore feel obliged to send little snippets of the things they say to "Take a Mank" magazine, if it exists, at all.
So, when Scaryduckling was a lovely little two-year-old, she ran into the kitchen in a state of child-like excitement. Hardly surprising, what with her being a child an' everything.
"Look mum" said my two year old daughter, clutching something long, pink and thin, "A Barbie leg!"
It wasn't a Barbie leg at all. Rather an ill-advised present I had purchased from a certain shop on the outskirts of Oxford. The type that doesn't have any windows, and charges a fortune for magazines featuring ladies with hardly any clothes on.
It was a good thing, in retrospect, that it didn't have any batteries in it.
I wrote the letter. We never got ten quid from Take a Break, the bastards.
Of course, that couldn't be the end of it. We bred again, and now we had two little darlings providing us with Take a Break ammo.
"Look mummy, it's an airplane!" said Scaryduck Jr.
It wasn't an airplane.
It was a certain brand of sanitary product with wings on.
All the way down the front hall.
All the way up the stairs.
All over the front windows, giving a lovely miniature airshow for the passengers on the number 17 bus.
Take a Break still didn't send us a tenner, and I even sent them a series of humourous photographs into the bargain.
"And Daddy, you've run out of balloons," said Scaryduckling, "Can you tie a knot in this one?"
"They aren't balloons. They're chewing gum."
Asking for it...
"I didn't like them. They tasted funny."
And:
"Daddy, why have the ladies in your book got no clothes on? They'll get cold and then they won't feel very well. Tell them to get dressed."
And:
I have promised not to mention "Oh No! Mummy's painting her bum!" as the circumstances are far too embarrassing for all concerned. Work it out for yourselves.
Take a Break must have a file on me at least six inches thick. I still never got a tenner.
Blatant plug for Duck News: HERE
Thursday, November 23, 2006
Dear Viz, and a Widdy vote
Dear Viz
I done a letter!
Dear Viz,
I've got a foolproof plan to win the top prize on the national lottery. If I won the cash, I'd use the money to get Stephen Hawking to invent a time machine, go back in time and give myself the winning numbers, so I'd have the money to invent the time machine so that I could go back in time to give myself the winning numbers.
Then I could go back in time and kidnap Stephen Hawking before he ends up in a wheelchair, and threaten to put him in a wheelchair unless he can invent a time machine for me. Then, I'd be able to go back in time to give myself the winning numbers on the national lottery, so that I've got enough money to invent a time machine and go back in time to kidnap Stephen Hawking and build myself a time machine so I can win the lottery. Nothing can go wrong. I think.
I am not mad.
Yours
S. Duck, Ecuador
However, while I remain a pauper, I suppose I had better continue with this Dangermouse-free weblog and put forward five Scary Tales of Mirth and Woe for you lot to choose from.
Vote, then, in a Widdy special for:
Take a Break: "Put two dozen cameras in a house, and Channel Four call it Big Brother. Put one tiny camera in Ann Noreen Widdecombe's bathroom, and I get an ASBO. Where's the justice?"*
Conk: As the kangaroo brutally thrust its load home for the final time, Ann Noreen Widdecombe finally found her voice: "I'm a celebrity - get me out of here!" But Ant and Dec were nowhere to be seen.
Road Rage: It had all been so, so beautiful. But one thing haunted Ann Noreen Widdecombe. Why had Heather "Stumpy" Mills gone for her on the rebound?
Graffiti: "I'm sorry", said the theatrical agent to Ann Noreen Widdecombe, "but you'll have to come down now. It's damn impressive, but there's just no call in the business for an act that can stick herself to the ceiling by the suction power of her minge."
Kendo's Barbie of Woe: At last, Anne Noreen Widdecombe had found her true vocation in the world of end-of-the-pier all-in wrestling. Not only did she get her own leotard, but the baby oil allowance was the best in the business
A free sick bucket to every tenth voter!
* This gag stolen from Viz. Fair swap, really.
I done a letter!
Dear Viz,
I've got a foolproof plan to win the top prize on the national lottery. If I won the cash, I'd use the money to get Stephen Hawking to invent a time machine, go back in time and give myself the winning numbers, so I'd have the money to invent the time machine so that I could go back in time to give myself the winning numbers.
Then I could go back in time and kidnap Stephen Hawking before he ends up in a wheelchair, and threaten to put him in a wheelchair unless he can invent a time machine for me. Then, I'd be able to go back in time to give myself the winning numbers on the national lottery, so that I've got enough money to invent a time machine and go back in time to kidnap Stephen Hawking and build myself a time machine so I can win the lottery. Nothing can go wrong. I think.
I am not mad.
Yours
S. Duck, Ecuador
However, while I remain a pauper, I suppose I had better continue with this Dangermouse-free weblog and put forward five Scary Tales of Mirth and Woe for you lot to choose from.
Vote, then, in a Widdy special for:
Take a Break: "Put two dozen cameras in a house, and Channel Four call it Big Brother. Put one tiny camera in Ann Noreen Widdecombe's bathroom, and I get an ASBO. Where's the justice?"*
Conk: As the kangaroo brutally thrust its load home for the final time, Ann Noreen Widdecombe finally found her voice: "I'm a celebrity - get me out of here!" But Ant and Dec were nowhere to be seen.
Road Rage: It had all been so, so beautiful. But one thing haunted Ann Noreen Widdecombe. Why had Heather "Stumpy" Mills gone for her on the rebound?
Graffiti: "I'm sorry", said the theatrical agent to Ann Noreen Widdecombe, "but you'll have to come down now. It's damn impressive, but there's just no call in the business for an act that can stick herself to the ceiling by the suction power of her minge."
Kendo's Barbie of Woe: At last, Anne Noreen Widdecombe had found her true vocation in the world of end-of-the-pier all-in wrestling. Not only did she get her own leotard, but the baby oil allowance was the best in the business
A free sick bucket to every tenth voter!
* This gag stolen from Viz. Fair swap, really.
Wednesday, November 22, 2006
Dangermouse: King of Wrong
Dangermouse: King of Wrong
We see that the *cough* so-called Bolshevik Broadcasting Corporation has brought back Dangermouse, that animation much-loved of the poorly-educated middle classes of this once great nation, a crime against good taste that cannot go unmentioned on these pages.
"He's the greatest, he's fantastic, wherever there is danger he'll be there", goes the song, dragged out by trendies of a certain age in the vain hope of confirming their so-called cool credentials to an otherwise disinterested public.
Great? Fantastic? We reply thussly: "Bollocks".
You see, poor deluded obedient citizen of the 51st State, there is more to Dangermouse than meets the eye. It is simple government propaganda, designed to promote the idea of a white, middle-class status quo, and be damned to the darkest corners of Hell if you're anything else. Like a frog, for example.
The enlightened viewer, who can see this evil piece of so-called "entertainment" for what it is, will find that the alleged villain of the piece, Baron Greenback, is nothing but a legitimate businessman ruthlessly hounded by a state apparatus determined to put an end to reptilian (for which read "foreign") direct investment in a free globalised market to which it pays scant lip service.
Dangermouse - white Middle-England fascist bully-boy incarnate - is clearly a portmanteau of David Blunkett and John Reid, clearly designed by the government's propaganda department to drum up support for its flawed and corrupt attempts to control society. A flawed and corrupt campaign to vilify such law-abiding citizens such as Silas Greenback, who came to this country a penniless refugee of a tadpole, and has grown a business empire that makes these so-called champagne socialists seeth with envy.
Even the 'DM' badge on the so-called hero's chest has sinister meaning - 'Doc Marten' - signifying the trampling down of opposition under the mighty boot of British colonial power.
Colonel K (the 'K' standing for 'Kill the Foreign Johnnies and sell their children as slaves' - True Fax!) shows the British establishment at its frightening worst; while everyman Penfold portrays the blind, stupid nature of the British population. Not only are they brainwashing you with this filth - they are laughing at you while they do it! It's all there, sheeple, staring you in the face.
And that is why Dangermouse is thirty shades of wrong.
Grown-ups: Say NO to Dangermouse.
I am not mad.
Next week: Lord Voldemort - Is he all bad?
Shameless pluggery: Duck News on the Lebanon (total mentions of that Human League song = zero), and political correctness gone mad
Shameless somethingelsery: It's Misty's birthday today. She wants you to go over and wish her 'Happy Birthday', or she'll throw a big strop and run the lot of us through with her big Viking spear. Well? Get on with it!
We see that the *cough* so-called Bolshevik Broadcasting Corporation has brought back Dangermouse, that animation much-loved of the poorly-educated middle classes of this once great nation, a crime against good taste that cannot go unmentioned on these pages."He's the greatest, he's fantastic, wherever there is danger he'll be there", goes the song, dragged out by trendies of a certain age in the vain hope of confirming their so-called cool credentials to an otherwise disinterested public.
Great? Fantastic? We reply thussly: "Bollocks".
You see, poor deluded obedient citizen of the 51st State, there is more to Dangermouse than meets the eye. It is simple government propaganda, designed to promote the idea of a white, middle-class status quo, and be damned to the darkest corners of Hell if you're anything else. Like a frog, for example.
The enlightened viewer, who can see this evil piece of so-called "entertainment" for what it is, will find that the alleged villain of the piece, Baron Greenback, is nothing but a legitimate businessman ruthlessly hounded by a state apparatus determined to put an end to reptilian (for which read "foreign") direct investment in a free globalised market to which it pays scant lip service.
Dangermouse - white Middle-England fascist bully-boy incarnate - is clearly a portmanteau of David Blunkett and John Reid, clearly designed by the government's propaganda department to drum up support for its flawed and corrupt attempts to control society. A flawed and corrupt campaign to vilify such law-abiding citizens such as Silas Greenback, who came to this country a penniless refugee of a tadpole, and has grown a business empire that makes these so-called champagne socialists seeth with envy.
Even the 'DM' badge on the so-called hero's chest has sinister meaning - 'Doc Marten' - signifying the trampling down of opposition under the mighty boot of British colonial power.
Colonel K (the 'K' standing for 'Kill the Foreign Johnnies and sell their children as slaves' - True Fax!) shows the British establishment at its frightening worst; while everyman Penfold portrays the blind, stupid nature of the British population. Not only are they brainwashing you with this filth - they are laughing at you while they do it! It's all there, sheeple, staring you in the face.
And that is why Dangermouse is thirty shades of wrong.
Grown-ups: Say NO to Dangermouse.
I am not mad.
Next week: Lord Voldemort - Is he all bad?
Shameless pluggery: Duck News on the Lebanon (total mentions of that Human League song = zero), and political correctness gone mad
Shameless somethingelsery: It's Misty's birthday today. She wants you to go over and wish her 'Happy Birthday', or she'll throw a big strop and run the lot of us through with her big Viking spear. Well? Get on with it!
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
On Christmas shopping
On Christmas shopping
We like to get our Christmas shopping done early, to avoid what passes for a rush in Weymouth town centre come December. We've got a Debenhams and a Woolworths, both built over an old graveyard dating back to the Black Death*, which might go to explain the ectoplasm spoffed all over my most recent copy of OK! magazine, bought, you must understand, for ironic purposes.
So, it was a Friday lunchtime that we found ourselves in Haunted Debenhams, running the eye over what we might buy for certain family members, when we came across a display of frighteningly expensive executive toys, priced for cardiac arrest.
Mrs Duck: "What... what's that?"
Me: "It's one of those Robosapien
things. How much? Three hundred quid? Good God."
Mrs Duck: "What does it do for three hundred quid then? It had better be special."
Me: "For that money, I'd fully expect it to go out to the off licence, do the housework, cook dinner, and when it has quite done, grasp me firmly with its metallo-plastic pincers and give me the robotic wanking of my life."
Passing Blue-Rinsed Old Biddy: "I'd do it for twenty."
Me: "....!"
Mrs Duck: "Come on dear**, we're leaving"
Old Biddy: "Fifteen then."
Deal or No Deal? No deal, and not just because she was sporting Noel Edmond's beard.
* The Black Death was Weymouth's gift to a grateful nation. God, some people just can't take a joke
** I hate it when she speaks in bold text. It can only mean one thing: woe
We like to get our Christmas shopping done early, to avoid what passes for a rush in Weymouth town centre come December. We've got a Debenhams and a Woolworths, both built over an old graveyard dating back to the Black Death*, which might go to explain the ectoplasm spoffed all over my most recent copy of OK! magazine, bought, you must understand, for ironic purposes. So, it was a Friday lunchtime that we found ourselves in Haunted Debenhams, running the eye over what we might buy for certain family members, when we came across a display of frighteningly expensive executive toys, priced for cardiac arrest.
Mrs Duck: "What... what's that?"
Me: "It's one of those Robosapien
things. How much? Three hundred quid? Good God."Mrs Duck: "What does it do for three hundred quid then? It had better be special."
Me: "For that money, I'd fully expect it to go out to the off licence, do the housework, cook dinner, and when it has quite done, grasp me firmly with its metallo-plastic pincers and give me the robotic wanking of my life."
Passing Blue-Rinsed Old Biddy: "I'd do it for twenty."
Me: "....!"
Mrs Duck: "Come on dear**, we're leaving"
Old Biddy: "Fifteen then."
Deal or No Deal? No deal, and not just because she was sporting Noel Edmond's beard.
* The Black Death was Weymouth's gift to a grateful nation. God, some people just can't take a joke
** I hate it when she speaks in bold text. It can only mean one thing: woe
Monday, November 20, 2006
On things not possibly getting any worse
On things not possibly getting any worse
Top TV comedy producer and blogger Mark Freeland asks, on farting in front of Princess Anne's son and visiting a rest home full of naked old men: "Can it get much worse?"
Yes, of course it can. And why does it always seem to involve my genitals?
While having an operation on my 'nads last year didn't hurt nearly as much as I expected, thanks to the miracle of loads and loads of drugs, there's not much worse than making small talk on your holidays with a doctor and two nurses while they carve away at your bollocks like it was a Sunday roast.
In fact, I've had far worse pain from far more innocent pursuits. True, I've been kicked in the bollocks by the unhinged kid at school, but then not even the teachers escaped Mad Paul's swinging Doc Martens. After the brief white flash of pain, and the minutes spent drooling and crying on the playground, you are free to go about your life, hoping beyond hope that they still work. Not so bad, then.
However, there is little worse than rubbing Deep Heat into my back before having a wee without washing my hands. It doesn't get much worse than that, not unless you're the kind of person to have a penchant for getting serviced by tramps. Tramps who have previously been cutting up chilis before getting down to the business in hand.
I would imagine that nothing is quite as bad as that. Unless, of course, you lot know better, you tramp-worrying filth-mongers.
Top TV comedy producer and blogger Mark Freeland asks, on farting in front of Princess Anne's son and visiting a rest home full of naked old men: "Can it get much worse?"
Yes, of course it can. And why does it always seem to involve my genitals?
While having an operation on my 'nads last year didn't hurt nearly as much as I expected, thanks to the miracle of loads and loads of drugs, there's not much worse than making small talk on your holidays with a doctor and two nurses while they carve away at your bollocks like it was a Sunday roast.
In fact, I've had far worse pain from far more innocent pursuits. True, I've been kicked in the bollocks by the unhinged kid at school, but then not even the teachers escaped Mad Paul's swinging Doc Martens. After the brief white flash of pain, and the minutes spent drooling and crying on the playground, you are free to go about your life, hoping beyond hope that they still work. Not so bad, then.
However, there is little worse than rubbing Deep Heat into my back before having a wee without washing my hands. It doesn't get much worse than that, not unless you're the kind of person to have a penchant for getting serviced by tramps. Tramps who have previously been cutting up chilis before getting down to the business in hand.
I would imagine that nothing is quite as bad as that. Unless, of course, you lot know better, you tramp-worrying filth-mongers.
Sunday, November 19, 2006
On blogging
On blogging
Somebody told me this not long ago, and it made me done a roffle:
"Starting a new blog is like getting a kitten. You either lavish your undying love on it for the rest of its natural life; or you get bored of it after a fews days, brain it with a rock and leave it for carrion."
So: I'm still at the 'undying love' stage at Duck News, even if I'm reduced to hurling cheap abuse at Pete Doherty.
Somebody told me this not long ago, and it made me done a roffle:
"Starting a new blog is like getting a kitten. You either lavish your undying love on it for the rest of its natural life; or you get bored of it after a fews days, brain it with a rock and leave it for carrion."
So: I'm still at the 'undying love' stage at Duck News, even if I'm reduced to hurling cheap abuse at Pete Doherty.
Friday, November 17, 2006
Mirth and Woe: Where are they now?
Mirth and Woe: Where are they now?
I know what you're asking. What happens to all the people that appear in my stories? You read about all these friends and relatives that turn up on these pages, get puked over, and then disappear again with barely a word.
Do they get special counselling?
Do they ever sue?
Do they ever return and get a second dose of rich, brown vomit, jets of fresh poo, or even the chance of red hot rumpy action with my good self? No. No, they do not.
And how can you possibly blame them?
My friend Matty, who lived next door to me for much of my youth, coming to grief on numerous occasions in hedges, playgrounds and raging river torrents. He found himself, over the years, cheating death most heinously as go-karts have smashed through hedges, survived home-made bombs that have ripped through waste-ground, and fled for his life as the baying hordes of parents have borne down on the lot of us, seeking awful revenge.
Matty is now in Australia. And if he could get any further away, such as another planet, he would.
Richard, similarly has fled to the West Coast of the United States. At least one of my other childhood neighbours works for an airline, so he too can put some miles between himself and repeated woe. Meanwhile, my entire family have all put at least 150 miles between me and them. It's for the best, to be honest.
But others are not so fortunate. Some can not, or transfixed by the sheer mank, will not escape for their lives.
Take, for example, my former colleague Paul. He worked with me for a while at that famous tyre and exhaust company that rhymes with "Motor Gay".
Paul had a singular chatting up technique, which he used whenever he was, well, anywhere, really.
At work. Down the pub. In the frozen products aisle of Tescos. Anywhere women could be found, he used his chat-up technique.
It was this: "Fancy a shag?"
Some afternoons, after a particularly heavy session down the pub, his face would be redder than Alex Ferguson's with the succession of slaps he experienced. And that's if their boyfriends didn't catch up with him first.
Yet, despite his suffering, he always claimed to be ahead of the game.
"Even if it only works one time out of a hundred, I'll still get laid more than you," he said, and damn it, he was right.
"So," I asked, "How many times has it worked?"
"Errr… once."
"Anybody I might know?"
"Yeah, as a matter of fact. She used to work here."
"Riiight…."
"Yeah, you remember Sharon?"
Yes. Yes, I remembered Sharon.
"God mate, never again. You'll never guess what she's into."
No. No, I'll never guess.
"I mean, good thing we went back to my place straight from a couple of pints in the pub. Otherwise I don't think I could have managed."
"Oh. God. No."
"So… I… err… you know… she made me… well… you know… she… she… err… made me… err…"
"You pissed on her tits, didn't you?"
"How did you know?"
And that, my friends, is what happened to Barking Mad Sharon.
I know what you're asking. What happens to all the people that appear in my stories? You read about all these friends and relatives that turn up on these pages, get puked over, and then disappear again with barely a word. Do they get special counselling?
Do they ever sue?
Do they ever return and get a second dose of rich, brown vomit, jets of fresh poo, or even the chance of red hot rumpy action with my good self? No. No, they do not.
And how can you possibly blame them?
My friend Matty, who lived next door to me for much of my youth, coming to grief on numerous occasions in hedges, playgrounds and raging river torrents. He found himself, over the years, cheating death most heinously as go-karts have smashed through hedges, survived home-made bombs that have ripped through waste-ground, and fled for his life as the baying hordes of parents have borne down on the lot of us, seeking awful revenge.
Matty is now in Australia. And if he could get any further away, such as another planet, he would.
Richard, similarly has fled to the West Coast of the United States. At least one of my other childhood neighbours works for an airline, so he too can put some miles between himself and repeated woe. Meanwhile, my entire family have all put at least 150 miles between me and them. It's for the best, to be honest.
But others are not so fortunate. Some can not, or transfixed by the sheer mank, will not escape for their lives.
Take, for example, my former colleague Paul. He worked with me for a while at that famous tyre and exhaust company that rhymes with "Motor Gay".
Paul had a singular chatting up technique, which he used whenever he was, well, anywhere, really.
At work. Down the pub. In the frozen products aisle of Tescos. Anywhere women could be found, he used his chat-up technique.
It was this: "Fancy a shag?"
Some afternoons, after a particularly heavy session down the pub, his face would be redder than Alex Ferguson's with the succession of slaps he experienced. And that's if their boyfriends didn't catch up with him first.
Yet, despite his suffering, he always claimed to be ahead of the game.
"Even if it only works one time out of a hundred, I'll still get laid more than you," he said, and damn it, he was right.
"So," I asked, "How many times has it worked?"
"Errr… once."
"Anybody I might know?"
"Yeah, as a matter of fact. She used to work here."
"Riiight…."
"Yeah, you remember Sharon?"
Yes. Yes, I remembered Sharon.
"God mate, never again. You'll never guess what she's into."
No. No, I'll never guess.
"I mean, good thing we went back to my place straight from a couple of pints in the pub. Otherwise I don't think I could have managed."
"Oh. God. No."
"So… I… err… you know… she made me… well… you know… she… she… err… made me… err…"
"You pissed on her tits, didn't you?"
"How did you know?"
And that, my friends, is what happened to Barking Mad Sharon.
Thursday, November 16, 2006
The Life of Kendo
The Life of Kendo*
The recent publication of Tales of Mirth and Woe has brought an unexpected result in Mrs Duck's father, the magnificent Kendo, opening whole new seams of stories for this site. Stories packed to the gills with both Mirth and Woe, of the highest quality. One or two of these stories have already slipped out onto these pages, but there is more to come. Much more, you lucky, lucky people.
In fact, the in-laws have been hard at it for a number of years (big family - they never had a television) and can already boast the following achievements, some of which still grace the archives of the Reading Evening Post:
- The time they were caught grave-robbing
- The time a family member became an internationally famous comedian despite "not being the funny one"
- The time they sent the little old lady next door to the gallows
- The time a family member carked it on the Titanic (built at the yard where my grandfather worked. Now that's going to cause some family friction)
- The time they re-enacted the siege of Stalingrad at a wedding reception
- The time a family member starred in EastEnders, only to be framed for murder
We're going to get along just fine. Oh yes.
* No relation to this Kendo.
A vote-o!
See what happens in a week where my MSN messenger is set to "Busy"? I sit myself sat down and force myself to write no less than three spanking new Tales of Mirth and Woe, which, countering recent unwarranted criticism from certain quarters, are all 100 per cent true.
I've just jazzed them up a bit, that's all.
Vote, then, for one of the following, the most popular of which, based on the single transferable make-it-up-as-I-go-along system will appear on these pages tomorrow
* Take a Break: A not untrue tale of life in the Duck household, which may or may not include a special guest appearance by Ann Noreen Widdecombe in her foundation garments*
* Conk: A not untrue tale of killer trees, suspicious "herbal" concoctions and a close family member getting maimed for life
* Road Rage: A not untrue tale of traffic-related woe and cheap personal abuse which may or may not include a special guest appearance by TV's Sandi Toksvig in her foundation garments*
* Where are they now?: A not untrue tale of bodily waste product woe which is a sequel to one of my most notorious stories. Dare you risk the rule of diminishing returns for this one? Eh? Do you?
* Graffiti: A not untrue tale of improvised literary woe including repeated use of the words "Oh fuckery", which may or may not include a special guest appearance by HRH Prince William in his granny's foundation garments*
And your reward? A thing what I done, and the latest duck-flavoured news comment on ducknews.org. I must be serious. I've spent money on it.
* Go on, what do you think?
The recent publication of Tales of Mirth and Woe has brought an unexpected result in Mrs Duck's father, the magnificent Kendo, opening whole new seams of stories for this site. Stories packed to the gills with both Mirth and Woe, of the highest quality. One or two of these stories have already slipped out onto these pages, but there is more to come. Much more, you lucky, lucky people.
In fact, the in-laws have been hard at it for a number of years (big family - they never had a television) and can already boast the following achievements, some of which still grace the archives of the Reading Evening Post:
- The time they were caught grave-robbing
- The time a family member became an internationally famous comedian despite "not being the funny one"
- The time they sent the little old lady next door to the gallows
- The time a family member carked it on the Titanic (built at the yard where my grandfather worked. Now that's going to cause some family friction)
- The time they re-enacted the siege of Stalingrad at a wedding reception
- The time a family member starred in EastEnders, only to be framed for murder
We're going to get along just fine. Oh yes.
* No relation to this Kendo.
A vote-o!
See what happens in a week where my MSN messenger is set to "Busy"? I sit myself sat down and force myself to write no less than three spanking new Tales of Mirth and Woe, which, countering recent unwarranted criticism from certain quarters, are all 100 per cent true.
I've just jazzed them up a bit, that's all.
Vote, then, for one of the following, the most popular of which, based on the single transferable make-it-up-as-I-go-along system will appear on these pages tomorrow
* Take a Break: A not untrue tale of life in the Duck household, which may or may not include a special guest appearance by Ann Noreen Widdecombe in her foundation garments*
* Conk: A not untrue tale of killer trees, suspicious "herbal" concoctions and a close family member getting maimed for life
* Road Rage: A not untrue tale of traffic-related woe and cheap personal abuse which may or may not include a special guest appearance by TV's Sandi Toksvig in her foundation garments*
* Where are they now?: A not untrue tale of bodily waste product woe which is a sequel to one of my most notorious stories. Dare you risk the rule of diminishing returns for this one? Eh? Do you?
* Graffiti: A not untrue tale of improvised literary woe including repeated use of the words "Oh fuckery", which may or may not include a special guest appearance by HRH Prince William in his granny's foundation garments*
And your reward? A thing what I done, and the latest duck-flavoured news comment on ducknews.org. I must be serious. I've spent money on it.
* Go on, what do you think?
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
"How quaint!"
"How Quaint"
A phone rang. A phone rang in a far corner of the office that we had entirely forgotten about.
"What's that?" asked Steve.
"I haven't a clue," I replied, and a brief search of the area turned up the answer.
The fax machine.
"A fax machine? Since when have we had a fax machine?"
And: "How quaint!"
And: "Look! There's some paper coming out! Haven't these people heard of email?"
It was a triumph of ancient technology over the spanking new digital age, and we were so impressed we threw the fax into the recycling bin.
The world, it seems, is filled with old technology that simply refuses to die peacefully. The latest Argos catalogue, that dictionary of household taste, still has a page of Sony Walkmans (they never came up with a decent plural in all those years) that take cassettes. Even CD Walkmen are a tad passé, and I should know, I've got three.
So, I've wasted literally minutes of my life coming up with a list of "How Quaint" technology that won't go away:
* Faxes
* Audio cassettes
* VHS video
* Dial-up internet
* Four star petrol
* "I'm calling from a pay phone"
* "I've got to renew my CB radio licence"
* "And over on Radio 4 Long Wave, Test Match Special"
And yes, we still have a PC in our operation that runs Windows 3.11 on a 66MHz processor. Cutting edge!
What have you got?
A phone rang. A phone rang in a far corner of the office that we had entirely forgotten about."What's that?" asked Steve.
"I haven't a clue," I replied, and a brief search of the area turned up the answer.
The fax machine.
"A fax machine? Since when have we had a fax machine?"
And: "How quaint!"
And: "Look! There's some paper coming out! Haven't these people heard of email?"
It was a triumph of ancient technology over the spanking new digital age, and we were so impressed we threw the fax into the recycling bin.
The world, it seems, is filled with old technology that simply refuses to die peacefully. The latest Argos catalogue, that dictionary of household taste, still has a page of Sony Walkmans (they never came up with a decent plural in all those years) that take cassettes. Even CD Walkmen are a tad passé, and I should know, I've got three.
So, I've wasted literally minutes of my life coming up with a list of "How Quaint" technology that won't go away:
* Faxes
* Audio cassettes
* VHS video
* Dial-up internet
* Four star petrol
* "I'm calling from a pay phone"
* "I've got to renew my CB radio licence"
* "And over on Radio 4 Long Wave, Test Match Special"
And yes, we still have a PC in our operation that runs Windows 3.11 on a 66MHz processor. Cutting edge!
What have you got?
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
On/In Public Toilets
On/In Public Toilets
I like to think myself something of a connoisseur of public toilets. Not in a sticking my willy through a hole in the wall manner, more in writing a guidebook of all the excellent crappers I've visited in my life.
However, there's always some bugger who lets the side down.
Where to start? Oh yes: France.
I went on a school exchange trip. One day was set aside to go with the Frog kid's dad to see where he worked. He worked at the local hydro-electric plant where he had his own workshop.
They didn't even bother to hide the toilet anywhere - it was just one of those French hole-in-the-ground jobs set against the far wall. As I set my packed lunch down on one of the workbenches, I realised my eyes were set on the old bastard crouching and straining over the hole, dropping a monster Gallic turd.
He missed.
The filthy bugger didn't even try to wash it away, and the evil, foul-smelling chocolate surprise sat there, all day, daring me to take it on in a fight.
Horrible.
But then, not nearly as unremittingly awful as those found at Douala Airport, on my transit through the Cameroon several years ago. Not even the locals would touch it, even with the shitty stick provided, even with a VIP visit on the cards.
I saw, with my own eyes, as I waited for my flight to arrive, the President of France ushered in on his way to a state visit, and retire, looking a dreadful shade of froggy green. Awful sanitary standards? Those Cheese-Eating Surrender Monkeys have so much to learn.
I like to think myself something of a connoisseur of public toilets. Not in a sticking my willy through a hole in the wall manner, more in writing a guidebook of all the excellent crappers I've visited in my life.
However, there's always some bugger who lets the side down.
Where to start? Oh yes: France.
I went on a school exchange trip. One day was set aside to go with the Frog kid's dad to see where he worked. He worked at the local hydro-electric plant where he had his own workshop.
They didn't even bother to hide the toilet anywhere - it was just one of those French hole-in-the-ground jobs set against the far wall. As I set my packed lunch down on one of the workbenches, I realised my eyes were set on the old bastard crouching and straining over the hole, dropping a monster Gallic turd.
He missed.
The filthy bugger didn't even try to wash it away, and the evil, foul-smelling chocolate surprise sat there, all day, daring me to take it on in a fight.
Horrible.
But then, not nearly as unremittingly awful as those found at Douala Airport, on my transit through the Cameroon several years ago. Not even the locals would touch it, even with the shitty stick provided, even with a VIP visit on the cards.
I saw, with my own eyes, as I waited for my flight to arrive, the President of France ushered in on his way to a state visit, and retire, looking a dreadful shade of froggy green. Awful sanitary standards? Those Cheese-Eating Surrender Monkeys have so much to learn.
Monday, November 13, 2006
The Voice of Buddha
The Voice of Buddha
A collection of YouTube videos featuring Heaven 17 and the Human League
The League
* Being Boiled: not even Phil Oakey knows what this song is about any more
* Circus of Death - a song about killer clowns AND Hawaii 5-0. What more could you want?
* Empire State Human - "...just a born kid / I'll go to Egypt to be / a pyramid"
* Rock'n'Roll - not much call for Gary Glitter cover versions these days, it turns out
* Mirror Man
* (Keep Feeling) Fascination - wonderfully daffy
Heaven 17
* Let Me Go
* This is Mine - this am the best video
* Temptation - Almost nearly a number one single
* We Live So Fast
* ...And That's No Lie... - Plz to excuse low volume.
Oh, go on then...
* P. Oakey and G. Moroder - Together in Electric Dreams -as camp as tits in true Moroder style.
In summary: The Human League!
Also: Duck News - the news and comment site that says "No Shit Sherlock".
A collection of YouTube videos featuring Heaven 17 and the Human LeagueThe League
* Being Boiled: not even Phil Oakey knows what this song is about any more
* Circus of Death - a song about killer clowns AND Hawaii 5-0. What more could you want?
* Empire State Human - "...just a born kid / I'll go to Egypt to be / a pyramid"
* Rock'n'Roll - not much call for Gary Glitter cover versions these days, it turns out
* Mirror Man
* (Keep Feeling) Fascination - wonderfully daffy
Heaven 17
* Let Me Go
* This is Mine - this am the best video
* Temptation - Almost nearly a number one single
* We Live So Fast
* ...And That's No Lie... - Plz to excuse low volume.
Oh, go on then...
* P. Oakey and G. Moroder - Together in Electric Dreams -as camp as tits in true Moroder style.
In summary: The Human League!
Also: Duck News - the news and comment site that says "No Shit Sherlock".
Friday, November 10, 2006
Mirth and woe: Hospital
Hospital
I had the misfortune of having to go into hospital for a dental operation when I was a teenager, total anaesthetic, the works.
It came as some surprise to me that I had wonky teeth, because they all worked perfectly well, but it appeared that I had one that insisted on growing sideways, and given enough rope would have had me looking like Shane McGowan within a matter of months. Rubbing his hands with glee, the dental surgeon revealed plans to rip my gob open, pull out teeth and transplant the offending molar in the gap, all held together with a (and I quote) "small splint" and the lastest medical advances in superglue.
Naturally, this would also involve a certain amount of brace-wearing, which, as any fourteen year old might testify, is guaranteed to make you look and sound like some sort of belming idiot at exactly the same time you are trying to make yourself desirable to the opposite sex. The only girl who would even look at me had more metal in her mouth than Jaws from the James Bond films.
So, carted I was, off to the Royal Berkshire Hospital and injected with an armful of unnecessarily painful drugs until I passed out.
When I eventually came round, feeling worse than shit, the first thing I noticed was that my mouth was a different shape. There was something in there. Something big and unnatural. In fact, closer inspection revealed that someone had superglued a boxer's gumshield inside my mouth by way of a practical joke. This would be the "small splint", the dentist had told me about, the lying bastard. It was fucking massive, and as my mother came into focus at the side of her bed, I told her so.
"I uhi ahiv."
"Pardon?"
"E hin. I uhi ahiv."
Ah. The English language was going to take some work. If I was going to try to communicate with people, I thought it best to tell them something important. Like the fact I was dying to go to the toilet. Despite a Nil-by-Mouth diet, I was utterly bursting for a piss.
"I urin or a iss"
"Pardon?"
"Oilet!"
I think I might have resorted to a mime at this stage, but I finally got the message across, and rather unwisely heaved myself out of my bed onto wobbling legs, and staggered uncertainly towards the double doors at the end of the ward and the toilets that lay beyond.
If only I had realized I was still wearing my surgical gown. The type of surgical gown which does up at the back, with nothing worn underneath.
Result: walking through a mixed day ward, arse hanging out, to shrieks of disgust of the other patients.
I got as far as the door before the effects of the anaesthetic caught me, and I bowked up all the blood I'd swallowed during the operation, all over some bloke's bed and down my front, in a rather spectacular style reminiscent of a John Carpenter movie.
"Yaaaaaaaaaaaaaarch!"
"Nurse!" screamed the poor, blood-spattered unfortunate.
"Yaaaaaaaaaaaaaarch!" I contined.
"Nurse! The blood! The blood!"
"Urrrr!" I agreed, sounding, and looking, like the Creature From The Pit.
Some nurse, all tight dress and cleavage appeared and tried to usher me back to my bed. Unfortunately, the was bloody puke everywhere, and her sensible flat shoes were no match for it as she slipped and landed flat on her back in a dreadful red mixture of the contents of my stomach. I think I made her cry, in fact.
Coming to her rescue, a gallant porter managed to guide me back to my bed, and all he got in return were my sloppy seconds.
"Yaaaaaaaaaaaaaarch!"
I think I might have let a small amount of wee out as well.
Come to think of it, it was, in fact, rather a lot of wee.
"Urrrr!", and finally getting used to the big lump of plastic in my mouth: "Uckin' ell."
Across the ward came the enraged voice of an elderly visitor:
"It's disgusting, that's what it is. You can see his arse an' everything. You! Young man! Turn round! see? You can see his arse!"
It was like The Exorcist.
I fucking hate hospitals.
Also: More of this crap at Duck News.
I had the misfortune of having to go into hospital for a dental operation when I was a teenager, total anaesthetic, the works. It came as some surprise to me that I had wonky teeth, because they all worked perfectly well, but it appeared that I had one that insisted on growing sideways, and given enough rope would have had me looking like Shane McGowan within a matter of months. Rubbing his hands with glee, the dental surgeon revealed plans to rip my gob open, pull out teeth and transplant the offending molar in the gap, all held together with a (and I quote) "small splint" and the lastest medical advances in superglue.
Naturally, this would also involve a certain amount of brace-wearing, which, as any fourteen year old might testify, is guaranteed to make you look and sound like some sort of belming idiot at exactly the same time you are trying to make yourself desirable to the opposite sex. The only girl who would even look at me had more metal in her mouth than Jaws from the James Bond films.
So, carted I was, off to the Royal Berkshire Hospital and injected with an armful of unnecessarily painful drugs until I passed out.
When I eventually came round, feeling worse than shit, the first thing I noticed was that my mouth was a different shape. There was something in there. Something big and unnatural. In fact, closer inspection revealed that someone had superglued a boxer's gumshield inside my mouth by way of a practical joke. This would be the "small splint", the dentist had told me about, the lying bastard. It was fucking massive, and as my mother came into focus at the side of her bed, I told her so.
"I uhi ahiv."
"Pardon?"
"E hin. I uhi ahiv."
Ah. The English language was going to take some work. If I was going to try to communicate with people, I thought it best to tell them something important. Like the fact I was dying to go to the toilet. Despite a Nil-by-Mouth diet, I was utterly bursting for a piss.
"I urin or a iss"
"Pardon?"
"Oilet!"
I think I might have resorted to a mime at this stage, but I finally got the message across, and rather unwisely heaved myself out of my bed onto wobbling legs, and staggered uncertainly towards the double doors at the end of the ward and the toilets that lay beyond.
If only I had realized I was still wearing my surgical gown. The type of surgical gown which does up at the back, with nothing worn underneath.
Result: walking through a mixed day ward, arse hanging out, to shrieks of disgust of the other patients.
I got as far as the door before the effects of the anaesthetic caught me, and I bowked up all the blood I'd swallowed during the operation, all over some bloke's bed and down my front, in a rather spectacular style reminiscent of a John Carpenter movie.
"Yaaaaaaaaaaaaaarch!"
"Nurse!" screamed the poor, blood-spattered unfortunate.
"Yaaaaaaaaaaaaaarch!" I contined.
"Nurse! The blood! The blood!"
"Urrrr!" I agreed, sounding, and looking, like the Creature From The Pit.
Some nurse, all tight dress and cleavage appeared and tried to usher me back to my bed. Unfortunately, the was bloody puke everywhere, and her sensible flat shoes were no match for it as she slipped and landed flat on her back in a dreadful red mixture of the contents of my stomach. I think I made her cry, in fact.
Coming to her rescue, a gallant porter managed to guide me back to my bed, and all he got in return were my sloppy seconds.
"Yaaaaaaaaaaaaaarch!"
I think I might have let a small amount of wee out as well.
Come to think of it, it was, in fact, rather a lot of wee.
"Urrrr!", and finally getting used to the big lump of plastic in my mouth: "Uckin' ell."
Across the ward came the enraged voice of an elderly visitor:
"It's disgusting, that's what it is. You can see his arse an' everything. You! Young man! Turn round! see? You can see his arse!"
It was like The Exorcist.
I fucking hate hospitals.
Also: More of this crap at Duck News.
Thursday, November 09, 2006
London
London
The pursuit of cold, hard cash took me up to the capital recently.
There, you cannot walk down the street without being accosted by increasingly desperate distributors of the many free newspapers that have sprung up of late. London Lite. The London Paper. Metro. The Daily Bollocks.
"Free paper, sir?"
"No."
"Free paper, sir?"
"Fuck off."
"Free paper, sir? And would you like to rub my tits too?"
"I'll think about it. Have you got a sister?"
"It's a deal."
And these people, it turns out, earn more than the poor, hard-pressed hacks employed to write the content.
London, it seems, has passed the Free Newspaper Event Horizon, where the capital's entire economy relies solely on purple-clad goons handing out the latest comic from the Murdoch stable.
If there's one consolation, no bugger reads the increasingly barking Evening Standard these days. Which can only be A Good Thing.
While we're here, a quick note to the editors of London Lite: Just because you use the word 'blog' on every other page, it doesn't actually turn your publication into a weblog. It is still a freesheet newspaper, and not a particularly good one at that.
That is all.
Oh go on, vote me up, then
Thanks to my trying - and failing - to hold simultaneous MSN conversations with no less than four people yesterday evening, I got rather less writing done that I would have liked, and this week's Thursday vote-o is limited to a paltry three - count 'em - THREE Tales of Mirth and Woe for you lot to choose this week. Hang your heads in shame, for you all know who you are.
Any road up:
* Take a Break: Ann Noreen Widdecombe had no idea what was in those teabags she had purchased from Camdem Market. However, taking a half-time dump in the centre circle at Arsenal's new stadium proably wasn't top of her plans when she woke up that morning. At least, she recalled with some relief, she had the presence of mind to wipe thoroughly.
* Hospital: It was at that exact moment, sewn up in a buffalo hide, and hung up to rot, that Jason Donovan learned that the bushtucker trials on this series of "I'm a Celebrity, Get Me Out Of Here" were that much harder than before.
* Conk: "And then she fell into the arms of her brave Grenadier and surrendered herself to true, precious love. The End." Barbara Cartland dictated her latest book to her long-suffering secretary, and barely pausing for breath, the prolific author launched straight into her next project. "Now then, Liz: New title. 'Dear Fiesta, you won't believe the most incredible thing that happened to me at the army barracks the other day...'
A free night of sin with the zombie Cartland for every tenth voter.
The pursuit of cold, hard cash took me up to the capital recently.
There, you cannot walk down the street without being accosted by increasingly desperate distributors of the many free newspapers that have sprung up of late. London Lite. The London Paper. Metro. The Daily Bollocks.
"Free paper, sir?"
"No."
"Free paper, sir?"
"Fuck off."
"Free paper, sir? And would you like to rub my tits too?"
"I'll think about it. Have you got a sister?"
"It's a deal."
And these people, it turns out, earn more than the poor, hard-pressed hacks employed to write the content.
London, it seems, has passed the Free Newspaper Event Horizon, where the capital's entire economy relies solely on purple-clad goons handing out the latest comic from the Murdoch stable.
If there's one consolation, no bugger reads the increasingly barking Evening Standard these days. Which can only be A Good Thing.
While we're here, a quick note to the editors of London Lite: Just because you use the word 'blog' on every other page, it doesn't actually turn your publication into a weblog. It is still a freesheet newspaper, and not a particularly good one at that.
That is all.
Oh go on, vote me up, then
Thanks to my trying - and failing - to hold simultaneous MSN conversations with no less than four people yesterday evening, I got rather less writing done that I would have liked, and this week's Thursday vote-o is limited to a paltry three - count 'em - THREE Tales of Mirth and Woe for you lot to choose this week. Hang your heads in shame, for you all know who you are.
Any road up:
* Take a Break: Ann Noreen Widdecombe had no idea what was in those teabags she had purchased from Camdem Market. However, taking a half-time dump in the centre circle at Arsenal's new stadium proably wasn't top of her plans when she woke up that morning. At least, she recalled with some relief, she had the presence of mind to wipe thoroughly.
* Hospital: It was at that exact moment, sewn up in a buffalo hide, and hung up to rot, that Jason Donovan learned that the bushtucker trials on this series of "I'm a Celebrity, Get Me Out Of Here" were that much harder than before.
* Conk: "And then she fell into the arms of her brave Grenadier and surrendered herself to true, precious love. The End." Barbara Cartland dictated her latest book to her long-suffering secretary, and barely pausing for breath, the prolific author launched straight into her next project. "Now then, Liz: New title. 'Dear Fiesta, you won't believe the most incredible thing that happened to me at the army barracks the other day...'
A free night of sin with the zombie Cartland for every tenth voter.
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
"This time next year, Rodders…"
"This time next year, Rodders…"
A month ago, in response to an item in my local Dorset Echo about some elderly internet user on Portland who'd be royally ripped off by an e-mail lottery scam, I decided to repeat my experiment of June 2003. I wanted to see how widespread the issue really was, by seeing how much of a tall tale the fraudsters were willing to spin to attract the eyeballs of your average Internet Joe.
So, I added up all the money offered to me by internet fraudsters, just to see how rich I was going to be.
And, my, hasn't the advance fee fraud business come on leaps and bounds in the last three years? In the month of October 2006, I received on less than 199 emails from fake lottery companies offering me anything from fifty grand to several million, if I sent them a small peocessing fee first. Then a larger one. And then a larger one.
The total, then, just for lottery scams, is:
253,349,239 pounds, plus two BMW 5 Series cars.
Ker-, and indeed, ching!
If you add to that all the emails I received from deposed African leaders, dispossessed Zimbabwean farmers, US Marines on the run with Saddam's war loot, and jailed Russian oil executives, we get a further:
758,021,304 pounds
None of these tight gits offered me a car, Beemer or otherwise.
So, if we add the totals together, I was offered a completely non-existent 1,011,370,543 pounds, and a couple of Matchbox cars. A billion. That… that… that's nearly as much as Kate Moss 'earns' simply for getting out of bed.
In the words of poor, dead Del Trotter "We could do anything with that kind of money. We could go for a Berni."
In other news
News. News from ducks.
This would be my attempt to actually try to do something approximately sensible in the medium, and resorting, as usual, to type.
I would appreciate your feedback, sensible or otherwise. And if anyone can knock out a decent-looking logo, I will probably have sex with you, or something.
That is all.
A month ago, in response to an item in my local Dorset Echo about some elderly internet user on Portland who'd be royally ripped off by an e-mail lottery scam, I decided to repeat my experiment of June 2003. I wanted to see how widespread the issue really was, by seeing how much of a tall tale the fraudsters were willing to spin to attract the eyeballs of your average Internet Joe.
So, I added up all the money offered to me by internet fraudsters, just to see how rich I was going to be.
And, my, hasn't the advance fee fraud business come on leaps and bounds in the last three years? In the month of October 2006, I received on less than 199 emails from fake lottery companies offering me anything from fifty grand to several million, if I sent them a small peocessing fee first. Then a larger one. And then a larger one.
The total, then, just for lottery scams, is:
253,349,239 pounds, plus two BMW 5 Series cars.
Ker-, and indeed, ching!
If you add to that all the emails I received from deposed African leaders, dispossessed Zimbabwean farmers, US Marines on the run with Saddam's war loot, and jailed Russian oil executives, we get a further:
758,021,304 pounds
None of these tight gits offered me a car, Beemer or otherwise.
So, if we add the totals together, I was offered a completely non-existent 1,011,370,543 pounds, and a couple of Matchbox cars. A billion. That… that… that's nearly as much as Kate Moss 'earns' simply for getting out of bed.
In the words of poor, dead Del Trotter "We could do anything with that kind of money. We could go for a Berni."
In other news
News. News from ducks. This would be my attempt to actually try to do something approximately sensible in the medium, and resorting, as usual, to type.
I would appreciate your feedback, sensible or otherwise. And if anyone can knock out a decent-looking logo, I will probably have sex with you, or something.
That is all.
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
In praise of Marty McFly
In praise of Marty McFly
If you had a time machine, what historical event would you go back and change?
8 December 1980: "Hey Paul. I've got this great idea. Let's pop over to New York and go visit John. And I'll tell you what would be a great joke. Dress up as him and hang about outside his apartment building. That'll really freak him out when he gets home. It'll be a blast. What could possibly go wrong?"
October 14th 1066: "King Harold? Do us a favour and wear this over your royal head. Where I come from, we call it a motorcycle helmet."
March 26th 1994: "Excuse me sir? Mr bin Laden? Can I have your autograph?"
July 30th 1966: "Some people are on the pitch - they think it's all - oh God! That one's naked. And… and… he's done a poo. Geoff Hurst has stopped in his tracks, and can you blame him? Here comes Beckenbauer with the ball! Goal! 3-3! This is a disaster for England. A tragedy of national proportions."
I would also go back in time and change this blog so it has nothing but big pictures of cuddly rabbits before anybody else rips off the idea.
Ah.
And you?
If you had a time machine, what historical event would you go back and change?8 December 1980: "Hey Paul. I've got this great idea. Let's pop over to New York and go visit John. And I'll tell you what would be a great joke. Dress up as him and hang about outside his apartment building. That'll really freak him out when he gets home. It'll be a blast. What could possibly go wrong?"
October 14th 1066: "King Harold? Do us a favour and wear this over your royal head. Where I come from, we call it a motorcycle helmet."
March 26th 1994: "Excuse me sir? Mr bin Laden? Can I have your autograph?"
July 30th 1966: "Some people are on the pitch - they think it's all - oh God! That one's naked. And… and… he's done a poo. Geoff Hurst has stopped in his tracks, and can you blame him? Here comes Beckenbauer with the ball! Goal! 3-3! This is a disaster for England. A tragedy of national proportions."
I would also go back in time and change this blog so it has nothing but big pictures of cuddly rabbits before anybody else rips off the idea.
Ah.
And you?
Monday, November 06, 2006
"Gobble"
"Gobble"
And so he returns from That There Turkey. The more eagle-eyed amongst you may have noticed this article in the barking mad press regarding my assignment to Istanbul.
A junket?
A junket?
If there was junketing, I certainly didn't get to see any of it. I've got about thirty pages of notes to write up because, Mr Unnamed-Tabloid-Hack, I was working.
If you ask me, certain people at Associated Newspapers *cough* Daily Mail *cough* are jealous of the BBC's position in the world, where so many of its staff were invited to the industry's foremost event to discuss the issues and advances that touch the lives of - literally - billions. And the Mail wasn't.
Naturally, then, they wouldn't like to see this lot, snatched, if it pleases the court, in the few moments of free time granted to your hard-working reporter.
I also did the biggest unbroken poo I've ever done in my forty years on this planet. Alas, the batteries ran out in my camera.
Also: And speaking of fiction.... It's all lies, I tell you!
And so he returns from That There Turkey. The more eagle-eyed amongst you may have noticed this article in the barking mad press regarding my assignment to Istanbul.
A junket?
A junket?
If there was junketing, I certainly didn't get to see any of it. I've got about thirty pages of notes to write up because, Mr Unnamed-Tabloid-Hack, I was working.
If you ask me, certain people at Associated Newspapers *cough* Daily Mail *cough* are jealous of the BBC's position in the world, where so many of its staff were invited to the industry's foremost event to discuss the issues and advances that touch the lives of - literally - billions. And the Mail wasn't.
Naturally, then, they wouldn't like to see this lot, snatched, if it pleases the court, in the few moments of free time granted to your hard-working reporter.
I also did the biggest unbroken poo I've ever done in my forty years on this planet. Alas, the batteries ran out in my camera.
Also: And speaking of fiction.... It's all lies, I tell you!
Friday, November 03, 2006
About the Coachloads of Mad, Old German Women and Omelettes.
Before I regale you with this tale, I would like to make it clear that I have no objections to tourists in general, I do not make fun of the 'mentally challenged', neither am I in anyway ageist, sexist or racist - I am half German myself* - and I have no quarrel with omelettes of any description. It was just these particular old biddies and those bloody omelettes I had a problem with.
Once upon a time, I lived and worked in a hotel in Switzerland. It was a very nice hotel on top of a small mountain, which was steeped in history and also afforded wonderful views of the valley below, and some other mountains. Many people liked to visit this hotel and some liked it so very much that they would hold their wedding receptions and various other parties there. It also attracted tourists from far and wide, and amongst these tourist groups were the mad, old German women.
The hotel was in the top, right hand corner of the country near St. Gallen, which if you look at a map, you will see is next to part of Southern Germany. I swear that this part of Germany is where they send their 'disturbed' or possibly 'mentally unsure' and keep them in a special, large, secret compound**, only to release them on the public once every few weeks to give the staff there a rest.
Anyway, at this point in the story I must say that I had got the job out there because I was well trained in Silver Service waitressing and bar work, but although I could understand German well enough, I had yet to learn to speak it fluently, and one of my objectives whilst out there was to practice and learn German. But the problem was, that all the locals and the rest of the staff there wanted to learn English, and they don't speak 'German' there, but 'Schweizer-Deutsche' which is an almost entirely different language altogether. So, after two months, although I had learnt a fair bit of the local lingo, and how to say 'Go f**k yourself' in Albanian, my German was still limited.
But getting back to the story; The arrival of these coachloads were rather random. We would not be given warning of their arrival, but warm weather and being short-staffed was normally what would bring them in. The boss (being fairly used to theseattacks visits) had sorted a special 'Tourist Coach Menu' which was limited as to choice, so that in the event of being short-staffed and busy, we would have a bit of a fighting chance in feeding them. It comprised of four choices of soup and sandwiches, and omelettes. Mushroom, cheese, ham, or plain omelettes.
The method we used for taking orders, was that we had an order book with tear-off-tickets over a carbon copy page, so that we'd write the orders and table number on the ticket, tear off the ticket to pass onto the kitchen, and have a copy in our books for when it was time for them to pay. Simple. Most of the time, the method worked just fine. Most of the time...
One fine, sunny day, it was just the Boss and myself on duty on the front line, and two staff working the kitchen. It was fairly busy - about a dozen or so customers enjoying a quiet lunch - nothing we couldn't cope with, until we saw one of the bloody coaches coming up the road. We both watched out of the window willing it to go past and leave us in peace, but the Gods were against us that day and it stopped in the car park to release about a hundred of themad old bats women, all 'oohing and aahing' about the view and the flowers and the prettiness of the hotel.
The boss decided to assign them to the big dining room, and we formed a battle plan which meant that I would go and take the orders and serve the food, while she got the drinks ready, and acted as go-between with the kitchen staff.
The person who seemed to be in charge of the group and the coach driver, herded them upstairs and they settled down in little groups of four per table. We handed out the mini-menus, and I went to take the drinks orders while they chose their meals.
Now, most large touristy groups are good about this sort of thing. They realize that the waitress is busy, and they just place the orders with a smile and generally try to make life easier for the staff. But not this lot. Oh no.
They were all clucking amongst themselves, and when I eventually did get their attention long enough to ask what they wanted to drink, they instead asked me questions about where was I from?, how old was the hotel?, and (horror of horrors) even grabbed my apron and asked me where it was made as it was so very pretty with all the embroidery and so on it.
After about half an hour, I finally got the drinks orders in and the boss helped serve them while I attempted to get the food orders in.
Most of them went for omelettes. Good. Simple choice, easy to cook and so. Hurrah.
Now, remember what I said about the table numbers, and the orders being placed as to each table, and that method working most of the time? Good.
I gathered all the orders and passed the tickets onto the kitchen staff. After about ten minutes, the first four omelettes were ready. Two cheese, one mushroom, and one ham. I took them to the table where the order had been placed, only to find four different biddies sitting at the table.
"Excuse me" I said "But where are the ladies who placed these orders?"
This led to me being informed that they had decided to go and sit by the window to look at the flowers, but they had ordered omelettes as well so they grabbed them off my tray. Then they noticed that one of them was mushroom, which they hadn't ordered, and passed the plate over to a biddy on the next table, who had ordered mushroom.
I thought about trying to explain the table system, but decided it would take too long, and reckoned that as long as the other old bats didn't do the same thing, I'd be able to sort it.
Big mistake. The next lot did the same thing. The room was swarming with hungry bradies, all clamouring for omelettes, grabbing the bloody things off my tray and then complaining that it wasn't what they'd ordered.
The boss was busy with some customers in the smaller dining room, and as soon as she got back to the bar, I said that I really could do with some help out there, as I had no idea which omelette or mad old coot, was supposed to be where!
She replied that she was rather busy as well and that I knew enough to be able to sort it myself, and went back to her guests.
I took a deep breath, grabbed another tray of omelettes, and went back to the madhouse.
Again, the omelettes were snatched away from me, and again came the complaints that they weren't the right ones. Some of the women had finished their meals and were starting to stray from the pack to look at the flowers, and some were going through their purses and collecting coins to pay their bills. One of them grabbed my arm and tried to pay her bill with a collection of German, Swiss, and French coinage. Another grabbed my apron and said "Are you from Sweden?" to which I replied "No, I'm from London". "Oh" she said, "Where in Sweden is London?" I think I started to whimper at that point.
At the back of the room, a fight had started out as to which bat was going to pay for what, as the last time they'd been on a trip, bat A) had paid, and bats B) C) and D), where almost coming to blows as to who's turn it was this time.
Four of them were shouting at me that they still hadn't had their bloody omelettes, and I found out when one of the bats at another table said that they had all enjoyed BOTH their omelettes, that they had grabbed and eaten the order for the lot that hadn't had any omelettes.
It was then that the boss came up to me asking why there were customers coming up to her saying that the omelettes they were holding, were not what they'd ordered. My reply was something along the lines of "You speak German, I asked you to help, you f**king sort it out or I swear I will walk out, right now!"
Then the sous chef came up to us brandishing yet another tray of omelettes. Unkown to me, a tableful had taken matters into their own hands, and gone to the kitchen themselves to order yet more of the bloody things, and the sous chef, being flustered and scared, had cooked them in the hope of appeasing them. The old bints gathered round him and each grabbed for a plate. The poor sous chef panicked and dropped the tray. The next we knew, there were omelettes flying through the air as the over eager and as yet un-fed grannies, went for the plates with an exuberance equal to hyenas at a hunting frenzy.
Somehow, the boss, kitchen staff and I managed to sort it all out. I must have gone onto auto-pilot, or blanked out the horror, but we made it through although we kept finding bits of omelette and foreign coinage in the corners of the dining room for the next couple of weeks.
I still shudder whenever I see a large coach, but therapy is helping.
*Everytime I go on holiday I get up early to throw my towel in the pool, then get drunk and complain loudly about my behaviour.
**Rather like Eastbourne, but secret.
Before I regale you with this tale, I would like to make it clear that I have no objections to tourists in general, I do not make fun of the 'mentally challenged', neither am I in anyway ageist, sexist or racist - I am half German myself* - and I have no quarrel with omelettes of any description. It was just these particular old biddies and those bloody omelettes I had a problem with.
Once upon a time, I lived and worked in a hotel in Switzerland. It was a very nice hotel on top of a small mountain, which was steeped in history and also afforded wonderful views of the valley below, and some other mountains. Many people liked to visit this hotel and some liked it so very much that they would hold their wedding receptions and various other parties there. It also attracted tourists from far and wide, and amongst these tourist groups were the mad, old German women.
The hotel was in the top, right hand corner of the country near St. Gallen, which if you look at a map, you will see is next to part of Southern Germany. I swear that this part of Germany is where they send their 'disturbed' or possibly 'mentally unsure' and keep them in a special, large, secret compound**, only to release them on the public once every few weeks to give the staff there a rest.
Anyway, at this point in the story I must say that I had got the job out there because I was well trained in Silver Service waitressing and bar work, but although I could understand German well enough, I had yet to learn to speak it fluently, and one of my objectives whilst out there was to practice and learn German. But the problem was, that all the locals and the rest of the staff there wanted to learn English, and they don't speak 'German' there, but 'Schweizer-Deutsche' which is an almost entirely different language altogether. So, after two months, although I had learnt a fair bit of the local lingo, and how to say 'Go f**k yourself' in Albanian, my German was still limited.
But getting back to the story; The arrival of these coachloads were rather random. We would not be given warning of their arrival, but warm weather and being short-staffed was normally what would bring them in. The boss (being fairly used to these
The method we used for taking orders, was that we had an order book with tear-off-tickets over a carbon copy page, so that we'd write the orders and table number on the ticket, tear off the ticket to pass onto the kitchen, and have a copy in our books for when it was time for them to pay. Simple. Most of the time, the method worked just fine. Most of the time...
One fine, sunny day, it was just the Boss and myself on duty on the front line, and two staff working the kitchen. It was fairly busy - about a dozen or so customers enjoying a quiet lunch - nothing we couldn't cope with, until we saw one of the bloody coaches coming up the road. We both watched out of the window willing it to go past and leave us in peace, but the Gods were against us that day and it stopped in the car park to release about a hundred of the
The boss decided to assign them to the big dining room, and we formed a battle plan which meant that I would go and take the orders and serve the food, while she got the drinks ready, and acted as go-between with the kitchen staff.
The person who seemed to be in charge of the group and the coach driver, herded them upstairs and they settled down in little groups of four per table. We handed out the mini-menus, and I went to take the drinks orders while they chose their meals.
Now, most large touristy groups are good about this sort of thing. They realize that the waitress is busy, and they just place the orders with a smile and generally try to make life easier for the staff. But not this lot. Oh no.
They were all clucking amongst themselves, and when I eventually did get their attention long enough to ask what they wanted to drink, they instead asked me questions about where was I from?, how old was the hotel?, and (horror of horrors) even grabbed my apron and asked me where it was made as it was so very pretty with all the embroidery and so on it.
After about half an hour, I finally got the drinks orders in and the boss helped serve them while I attempted to get the food orders in.
Most of them went for omelettes. Good. Simple choice, easy to cook and so. Hurrah.
Now, remember what I said about the table numbers, and the orders being placed as to each table, and that method working most of the time? Good.
I gathered all the orders and passed the tickets onto the kitchen staff. After about ten minutes, the first four omelettes were ready. Two cheese, one mushroom, and one ham. I took them to the table where the order had been placed, only to find four different biddies sitting at the table.
"Excuse me" I said "But where are the ladies who placed these orders?"
This led to me being informed that they had decided to go and sit by the window to look at the flowers, but they had ordered omelettes as well so they grabbed them off my tray. Then they noticed that one of them was mushroom, which they hadn't ordered, and passed the plate over to a biddy on the next table, who had ordered mushroom.
I thought about trying to explain the table system, but decided it would take too long, and reckoned that as long as the other old bats didn't do the same thing, I'd be able to sort it.
Big mistake. The next lot did the same thing. The room was swarming with hungry bradies, all clamouring for omelettes, grabbing the bloody things off my tray and then complaining that it wasn't what they'd ordered.
The boss was busy with some customers in the smaller dining room, and as soon as she got back to the bar, I said that I really could do with some help out there, as I had no idea which omelette or mad old coot, was supposed to be where!
She replied that she was rather busy as well and that I knew enough to be able to sort it myself, and went back to her guests.
I took a deep breath, grabbed another tray of omelettes, and went back to the madhouse.
Again, the omelettes were snatched away from me, and again came the complaints that they weren't the right ones. Some of the women had finished their meals and were starting to stray from the pack to look at the flowers, and some were going through their purses and collecting coins to pay their bills. One of them grabbed my arm and tried to pay her bill with a collection of German, Swiss, and French coinage. Another grabbed my apron and said "Are you from Sweden?" to which I replied "No, I'm from London". "Oh" she said, "Where in Sweden is London?" I think I started to whimper at that point.
At the back of the room, a fight had started out as to which bat was going to pay for what, as the last time they'd been on a trip, bat A) had paid, and bats B) C) and D), where almost coming to blows as to who's turn it was this time.
Four of them were shouting at me that they still hadn't had their bloody omelettes, and I found out when one of the bats at another table said that they had all enjoyed BOTH their omelettes, that they had grabbed and eaten the order for the lot that hadn't had any omelettes.
It was then that the boss came up to me asking why there were customers coming up to her saying that the omelettes they were holding, were not what they'd ordered. My reply was something along the lines of "You speak German, I asked you to help, you f**king sort it out or I swear I will walk out, right now!"
Then the sous chef came up to us brandishing yet another tray of omelettes. Unkown to me, a tableful had taken matters into their own hands, and gone to the kitchen themselves to order yet more of the bloody things, and the sous chef, being flustered and scared, had cooked them in the hope of appeasing them. The old bints gathered round him and each grabbed for a plate. The poor sous chef panicked and dropped the tray. The next we knew, there were omelettes flying through the air as the over eager and as yet un-fed grannies, went for the plates with an exuberance equal to hyenas at a hunting frenzy.
Somehow, the boss, kitchen staff and I managed to sort it all out. I must have gone onto auto-pilot, or blanked out the horror, but we made it through although we kept finding bits of omelette and foreign coinage in the corners of the dining room for the next couple of weeks.
I still shudder whenever I see a large coach, but therapy is helping.
*Everytime I go on holiday I get up early to throw my towel in the pool, then get drunk and complain loudly about my behaviour.
**Rather like Eastbourne, but secret.
Thursday, November 02, 2006
Thursday Vote-O thingy
Hello, and welcome to the Thursday Vote-O, brought to you today by Me!
I've been having a sniff through Scary's bits, and got to read those Tales of Mirth and Woe that you've been clamouring to hear for ages, and can tell you that they're not half bad.
'Hospital' does include plenty of vomit, and 'Take a Break' has woe-a-plenty. Which is nice.
I also found a little number entitled 'London', which is slightly amusing, but doesn't have any vomit in it. Or woe.
Or, if you fancy something penned by me, you could choose my tale about the Mad Old German Women and the Omelettes...
So, your choices for tomorrow's Vote-O are;
Now to be changed after hearing from Scaryduck in the comments box*
Not much of a choice then.
*rummages around in drawers...*
Right.
I've been having a sniff through Scary's bits, and got to read those Tales of Mirth and Woe that you've been clamouring to hear for ages, and can tell you that they're not half bad.
'Hospital' does include plenty of vomit, and 'Take a Break' has woe-a-plenty. Which is nice.
I also found a little number entitled 'London', which is slightly amusing, but doesn't have any vomit in it. Or woe.
Or, if you fancy something penned by me, you could choose my tale about the Mad Old German Women and the Omelettes...
So, your choices for tomorrow's Vote-O are;
Now to be changed after hearing from Scaryduck in the comments box*
Hospital (Vomit)Take a Break (Woe)London (Tits - brief mention)- Mad Old German Women etc (Mayhem. And Omelettes)
Not much of a choice then.
*rummages around in drawers...*
Right.
- Mad Old German Women and Omelettes
- The Kebab Shop Fight
Sorry about that, but just remember I have read through Scary's tales, and they are excellent! 'Specially 'Hospital'
Vote-O me up again plz!
*See comments box
Oh, and for all you lovely lot wot left captions yesterday, here's your furry kebab!
Would you like chilli sauce with that?
Wednesday, November 01, 2006
And once again I return to wreak my vengeance upon Scaryduck's blog!
*Mwahahahhahahahahahhahahahahahaaaaaaaaaaaah*
Did I scare ya's? Eh? EH?
Oh, alright. Guess I didn't...
Anyhoo, as it's mid-week and I'm knackered, I am going to try and amuse you all with summat wot I do regularly over at my place, being a Double Entendre Day Caption Competition!
You get the following piccy and your goal is to add an amusing caption in the comments box.
Ready?
Excellent! Off you go.
There's a furry kebab for every entry.
*Mwahahahhahahahahahhahahahahahaaaaaaaaaaaah*
Did I scare ya's? Eh? EH?
Oh, alright. Guess I didn't...
Anyhoo, as it's mid-week and I'm knackered, I am going to try and amuse you all with summat wot I do regularly over at my place, being a Double Entendre Day Caption Competition!
You get the following piccy and your goal is to add an amusing caption in the comments box.
Ready?
Excellent! Off you go.
There's a furry kebab for every entry.
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